Chapter Text
Even following years of the same monotonous routine, all the same as each day prior, pulling himself out of bed at five in the morning doesn’t get easier, as much as he wishes it would.
Though, this particular morning, getting himself ready is somehow just a little less exhausting.
Not much, but a little.
Perhaps it’s the adrenaline that carries him through his morning routine: brushing his hair and teeth with a limp wrist, changing into his usual workout attire that he hadn’t folded, instead pulling it straight from a neglected pile on his dirty floors, washing his face until his skin is raw and puffy, submerging his head beneath the faucet until he chokes the sparse air from his lungs forcefully.
He picks at an old, crumbled granola bar that had been lost in his pantry, only finishing half of it until his stomach can no longer bear it without feeling nauseous, as if the ever-growing pit inside of him begins to eat itself from the inside out due to nerves, the tremors in his hands too prevalent for him to run weary fingers through his own greasy hair.
Atsushi Nakajima can’t decipher whether the way he’s feeling is simply anxiety, or if he’d truly lost his love for the sport of figure skating.
“You have talent,” they’d tell him, over and over again, but no matter how relentlessly he’d been reminded of such a thing, there was always that persistent, infuriatingly self-destructive voice in the back of his mind, one that would pester, scream, and taunt him until he’d felt it urgent to pull his hair from its roots and pick at his nails, to ball his fists and slam them into his thighs until he’d scattered bruises by his own will. “You just have to stop thinking so much.”
And he’s fortunate to have something such as natural agility, because he certainly doesn’t have money.
His skates are covered from heel to toe with hockey tape, the laces frayed and stained with dirt and blood from the blistering calluses on the joints of his fingers, pulled taut and strained cotton, the tongue of his boot held in place by nothing but lace straps. They creak every time he bends his knees, and on some occasions his ankle gives out from beneath him on the landing of a jump, as he has so little support that he’s sure one of these days the screws that hold his blades in position will simply rust off.
But they’re all he can possibly afford whilst being involved with an unforgivably expensive sport such as figure skating; either he buys new skates, or he eats for the next month.
Though, considering the latter wouldn’t benefit him in the sport regardless, he allows the former to run through his mind for a moment.
Atsushi settles onto a cardboard box pushed into the corner of his worn, one bedroom apartment in the downtown Yokohama area, just a short train ride from the massive, triple rink skating complex that he’d moved to the city in order to attend.
At first, he’d been incredibly reluctant.
Is there really a point in moving to the city solely to pursue a dying dream, a meaningless aspiration? He knows that he’s got some form of potential, but he’d been too difficult for past coaches to handle, and his breakdowns had gotten him escorted off the ice more times than he could possibly remember.
And no matter how talented he is, there’s always somebody better, and he knows it.
And the reality is that talent can only get you to the entrance, it’s money that opens the door.
Money that he doesn’t have.
The box underneath him gives way beneath his weight, and he lifts up his pant leg to run slim fingers over a flexible brace that wraps around his right knee, coincidentally his landing knee, and he slides it off his leg to allow damp skin to breathe; delicate fingers caress the sizable bruise, the colors more than a palette of purple and yellow, rosy reds and blues.
It’s not an injury that had been isolated to a single occurrence, rather one of repeated overuse, so much so that he feels it ache and pulse beneath his sheets at night, each step he takes like sharp blades that scrape and grate against his bones, the joint popping when he stands. Thus, he wraps it tightly in bandages until the circulation is cut off, until the muscles go numb and the area nearly takes on a heartbeat of its own.
The amount of times he’d fallen and cracked his knee against the ice is immeasurable.
And so each day when he awakes, when he throws on his jacket and laces up his boots, when he stretches against the wall and takes his warm up laps, he merely asks himself one question.
What’s the point?
Why put in all this futile effort, these sleepless and disconcertingly restless nights?
Why pummel his body on the ice, over and over again until he can no longer see straight, until his chest is so tight and constricted that he can’t recall what it feels like to breathe?
Why must he let his mind deteriorate slowly, torturously, as if each bundle of nerves and string of veins that keep him from crumbling commence the process of tearing apart, one by one?
But there’s those impermanent, euphoric moments that he experiences, ephemeral feelings of exhilaration, transitory in nature, that of pure exuberance as he feels the cool air rush over his face once he allows his body to move without reluctance nor hesitation.
It’s the experience that made him fall in love with the sport, though one that becomes more of an irregularity as time moves on.
He has a suitcase that he mindlessly shoves his belongings into: socks, ankle pads, water, towels, band-aids, gloves, anything that he needs.
He’d been inside the facility several times, but he’d only met the manager, Fukuzawa, and a few of the other staff and coaches as he passed by. It isn’t yet apparent who he’s going to train under, as they need to assess his skills first during a practice session to get an idea of what kind of skater he is; just the thought of those judging eyes on him as he moves forces him to unconsciously scratch at the back of his neck, to bite his lip until the sensitive flesh begins to sting.
And he knows there’s nothing more intimidating than being a completely unseen face in a rink full of cliques and closely knit relationships, friendships between other skaters and coaches. The tenseness in the locker room, the curious stares of coaches from the penalty box as program music plays, it’s all too overwhelming.
Thus, as he enters the doors, a young woman at the front desk directs him to the locker room; he stops by to leave his luggage on the benches. He’s in and out within seconds, noting the way that the conversation from the inside instantly ceases as he enters; a boy who inconspicuously observes him from his peripheral vision whispers to another boy to his side, that of which snickers, turning away to continue intently working at the laces of his boots.
With his head bowed, Atsushi stumbles through the hallways, avoiding the moving shoulders of those bustling through them until the moment he finds the entrance of Fukuzawa’s office. The door is already swung open and held in place by a rubber stopper, yet the man inside is focused attentively on a stack of papers beneath him on the wooden desk, diligently working across the lines with a pen; Atsushi taps his knuckles against the door frame to garner his attention, and the man snaps his eyes up instantly before softening his expression, the wave of his hand beckoning Atsushi on and towards the seat in front of the desk.
“Atsushi, it’s nice to meet with you again,” Fukuzawa says professionally, a pen teetering between idle fingers. “Are you prepared for your first day?”
“Of course,” he stutters nervously, hoping that his lie isn’t as blatantly obvious as he believes it is. “I just… Who exactly will I be training under?”
Fukuzawa crosses his arms on the desk. “I’d like you to get on the next session after the ice cut. Initially, I’d hoped to have Dazai take you on, but it seems his schedule is quite packed for the time being. Though, I’m going to have him look after you just for today so we can get a feel for your strengths and weaknesses. From there, we’ll proceed.”
There’s a pause, as Atsushi can’t figure out a response other than a generous nod of the head and a contrived smile; he subtly presses his hand against his thigh as he becomes aware of the involuntary shaking of his leg, the quick taps of his heel against the tile floor amongst the contained silence between them.
“I believe you’ll do well in your training here,” Fukuzawa continues. “We’ve got one of the best programs in the country. Besides, we’ve only just entered the off season. That means there’s plenty of time before nationals. You skipped out this year, I heard?”
Atsushi stills. “Well… I didn’t exactly qualify for nationals this year… I placed fourth in junior nationals, but this season was my first time competing in the senior bracket. And it didn’t go so well...”
Fukuzawa’s eyes widen as Atsushi’s hands unknowingly tug at the brace around his knee, his lips pursed together. “I see.”
It has always been his greatest downfall: in practice, when nobody is looking his way, he can allow his body to move lithely, to permit the act of muscle memory in overpowering his thoughts, thus he does exactly what he’d been training to do for years. Yet, the second that he steps out onto the ice, as the judges lean over the boards with their clipboards and examining stares, he freezes. The doubt settles, all he can hear is the sound of his own rapid breathing, all he can feel is the rigidity of his body and the narrowing pressure in his chest, the manner in which the lights above him are all too blinding and tears from the frigid air begin to cloud his vision and stain his numbed cheeks.
That abhorrent voice resurfaces, the brutal words that once broke him down, the shouts and screams, a lingering voice, that of his headmaster from the orphanage in which he’d resided as a child.
It’s funny how he’d long been released from the suffocating walls of that damnable orphanage, the hell which encompasses those crooked ceilings and unforgiving cellar floors, yet to him it seems improbable that the memories will ever stop haunting him, for they inject themselves into his mind every instance he allows his thoughts to wander.
“I noticed you’ve got a bit of a weak knee,” Fukuzawa points out, noting the way that Atsushi fiddles with the strap of the brace as he talks.
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Atsushi reassures politely. “Just a slight case of ‘jumper’s knee.’ Honestly, I just wear the brace as more of a precaution.”
Not particularly a lie, but not exactly the truth either. Perhaps he’d just downplayed the severity of the injury, as it does ache with each jump that he lands, but at some point he becomes so immersed in the moment of his training that it’s nothing more than an afterthought.
It’s not that serious, he’ll simply push through it.
He always has.
“I suggest you be careful, then,” Fukuzawa says. “It would be a shame if we lost another one of our skaters for the season?”
“Another?”
“Yes, another. We’ve already lost one of our best skaters. Sadly, in this sport, it’s not uncommon.”
And it certainly is the truth. Whether it’s an injury or otherwise that takes him out of the sport, Atsushi had just turned eighteen and already considered retirement on several occasions.
“I’ll meet with you again after your session with Dazai,” Fukuzawa announces. “So, go get your skates on.”
The first attempt, his skates are far too loose, to an extent where the tongue of his boot nearly folds completely over itself as he bends his ankle.
The second time, he can barely bend at all. When he unties the laces, there’s discolored indentations all around his feet.
It takes him five tries until they feel comfortable enough to move in; it’s marginally better, though every couple minutes he rolls his ankles in wide circles, toepick pointed to the ground, boots creaking and guards clicking beneath him each time he does so. And every instance that he shifts his body uncomfortably, there’s a piece of loose fabric that chafes against that bony bump on the side of his ankle, and the seam of his socks at the toe of his boots feels restrictive and overstimulating; he hops up and down to loosen his laces around the hooks, to break them in slightly, but his knees feel stiff and unstable.
He’s allowed ten minutes to warm up, but most of it is spent aimlessly circling the outskirts of the rink, mentally preparing himself, though each extension of his leg is shaky and each stretch of his arms is timid, thus he nearly grazes shoulders with other skaters on the ice more than twice. He’s breathing heavily, hoarsely, and it’s strange because he’s not out of shape, as his stamina is quite impressive, though it’s not his physique that extracts the air from his lungs.
Then he jumps.
All of his double jumps come first, including the double axel, and they’re not too difficult; though each landing is shaky and each extension of his leg is low and stiff. They’re watching him from the boards, and he needn't look towards them to know it. He can simply feel it on the back of his neck, the way that they stop and stare on each take-off and each stroke, each rip of his blade against the ice as he continues to power through his jumps.
Atsushi had always found it quite absurd how figure skating is described in the movies.
“It feels like you're flying,” they say. “It’s as if you’re soaring through the air, the ice beneath you is so far below it’s as if you’ll never reach it once you’ve taken off. There’s nothing like that feeling, like a bird in flight, as if you’ll jump and simply never come down. It’s like you’re in the clouds, on an endless high, like an angel in heaven.”
The reality is that the feeling is nothing of the sort. Jumping is nothing like flying, jumping is falling.
There’s so much to think about as he eases into warming up his triples, so many corrections and techniques he must remember, yet he can barely think at all; such an overabundance of thoughts swarming him that he pops the first three attempts at a triple salchow.
Keep your left arm in front, stop taking off too early, quit swinging your take-off leg, straighten your upper body, you’re not trying hard enough.
Weak.
It takes him the entire ten minutes just to get through a few decent triples, then he’s called over to the boards where Dazai is seated on the benches, large cup of coffee in hand. He takes a sip as Atsushi stops in front of the boards, gloved hands gripping tightly against the top of it. Dazai winces and forces himself to swallow, wiping his mouth vigorously with the back of his hand.
“Gross!” he cries, standing up to toss the cup into the trashcan behind the music box. “They never get my order right. If I can still taste the coffee, then I don’t want it.”
Atsushi scratches the back of his head timidly. “I quite like the taste of coffee, actually.”
Dazai crosses his legs and leans against the wall behind him, arms draped over his chest. “Actually, I’m kind of regretting throwing away that coffee. I should have just given it to Kunikida and told him it's decaf.”
“Um, who? And why?”
Dazai’s eyes widen, his expression conniving. “Oh, Kunikida is one of our coaches. Sometimes I like to give him regular coffee instead of decaf because he gets wired up from the caffeine. It’s hilarious. I mean honestly, you should see the way he runs around.”
Atsushi is stricken for words as Dazai idly pulls at a bandage wrapped around his wrist, though as he eventually notices the confused expression on Atsushi’s face, he snaps back to attention. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Atsushi. Shall we get started? I want to see what you can do.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” Atsushi rasps, swallowing hard. “What first?”
“Hm, are all your triples consistent?”
“For the most part, yeah.”
“Triple toe combos?”
“That too.”
“Triple axel?”
“Um, sort of. I’m not very consistent with it. And it’s cheated. Same with quads.”
Dazai claps his hands together excitedly. “That’s alright! I’d like to see you run through all your triples, some combos, and then we’ll get on to some spins and footwork. Sound good?”
Atsushi nods and takes a deep breath, reassured slightly by Dazai’s gentle smile, though he still can’t rid the thoughts from his mind.
He has to show Dazai that he’s worthy of being there, that he can prove himself as the talented skater he’d always hoped to be; though, on his very first jump in front of Dazai’s watchful eyes, he falls.
It’s another triple salchow, the jump that he’d always struggled with the most, and when he comes down from the jump it’s too tight of a landing, which never benefits him because of his seemingly unbreakable habit of wrapping his legs in the air. His shaken body slides across the ice, gloves damp from the water as he fumbles for balance until he flips onto his knees, standing up with his head down. For the moment, he holds it together, smiling as Dazai whistles from the boards to call him over.
“Hm, interesting,” Dazai starts, staring him up and down. “You’re off axis, and we’ve got to get rid of that wrap. You’ll never get a consistent jump with your leg that high.”
Atsushi nods.
“It’s sloppy technique, but that’s not your fault,” Dazai points out. “You seem to be naturally agile, but it’ll get you nowhere if you’re flinging your body around like that. I suspect it’s where that came from.”
Dazai stands and leans over the board, taking a single, accusatory finger to poke at the brace around Atsushi’s knee. He flinches for a second, though Dazai only smirks in his direction before taking a seat once more, nodding towards the ice.
“Triple loop next. Go on now,” he demands, lazily waving his hand between them in the direction of the open space, and Atsushi takes a deep breath slowly before skipping off, rolling his shoulders to release the tension. There’s a part of him that’s slightly grateful, as loop jumps are his personal favorite and most consistent, but even if he does have a preference for them, it doesn’t counter the fact that he can barely see straight.
It’s not his best, but he lands it, and it’s clean. At the moment, it’s all he can really ask for.
So he skates back over to the boards where Dazai is standing, as his elbows are pressed against the blue plastic counter of the walls, and he drops his head into his hands, evidently deep in concentrated thought.
“You’ve got a lot of potential,” Dazai says suddenly. “As much as I’d like to coach you, all of my positions are filled. I simply don’t have time for another full-time student, as do most of the coaches here. We’re pretty packed.”
“Right, of course,” Atsushi croaks, forcing a smile. “But… you’ll be able to fit me in somewhere, right?”
“Don’t worry! We’ll figure something out. I’m just trying to decide who would be best to work with you. I believe you need somebody strict, somebody who can push you to do better. Well, there is Kunikida, but something tells me that wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?” Atsushi asks.
“He’s too strict, completely inflexible,” Dazai sighs, rubbing his hands up and down his face. “I’ve got to be precise, you see. Somebody who will put enough pressure on you to work harder, but not enough that you’ll break down because of it. It’s a thin line.”
Atsushi takes a sip of his water and adjusts his skates around his ankles, swiveling them around until they feel less constricting.
“Well, I’ve got some time to think. I’d like to see more of your skating.”
And Atsushi nods slightly before running through the rest of his jumps: axel, toe loop, flip, lutz, and through the majority of his combinations before stretching his legs further for his spins. From the wall, Dazai continues to watch him, occasionally shouting directions and suggestions through the hands that cup around his mouth, and on occasion he steps out onto the ice and slides on his sneakers to demonstrate a critique; Atsushi hangs on to each bit of advice desperately, absorbing each word and each syllable that leaves Dazai’s mouth until he can begin to sense an impending headache against his temples. There comes a point when he begins to feel weary, when his skin begins to feel hot, stinging painfully in contrast to the brisk air.
Dazai asks him to run through a few footwork exercises, and Atsushi obliges obediently, stroking out onto the ice swiftly to work through each routine, each crunch of his blade on the ice imprinting a trail behind him, engraved into the surface of the frozen water.
But as he twists and turns on his heels, there’s something that catches his eye; rather, somebody.
There’s a boy making his way to the penalty box, dressed in a loose-fitting, completely black outfit with a hoodie zipped all the way to the top, so much so that it covers the bottom half of his face. Beneath the fluorescent lighting of the bulbs that dangle from the ceiling, Atsushi can observe that the boy is ghostly pale, to an extent that’s disconcerting, and even from a considerable distance the bags beneath his tired eyes are discernible. Though, it’s not his physique that diverts his attention, it’s more so the fact that the boy is leaning heavily onto a crutch wedged underneath his arm, overtly dependent upon its support, and each step that he takes appears to be excruciating as his face scrunches in unison with the clicking of the crutch he grips. When the boy walks past the covering of the boards and into the coaches box, Atsushi can note the brace around his leg that runs all the way past his knee, the way that his hands tremble against the armrest of his aid. He struggles to pull himself up the small stair into the coaches box, settling onto one of the benches next to Dazai, his body nearly collapsing into the seat as if he’d exerted an unusual amount of energy just to make it from the lobby into the rink. It’s clear how the boy’s body instantly solidifies as he sits next to Dazai, who amiably rubs his hand on his shoulder, and the boy nods with vibrant enthusiasm along with each sentence spoken to him, as if he hangs onto every word with the fleeting energy in his frail body.
Dazai performs an exaggerated motion with his hands as he explains something that Atsushi can’t hear, and the boy, once more, folds his hands in his lap and shakes his head up and down with undying attentiveness.
There’s something quite intriguing about the boy, simply something that Atsushi can’t yet place.
But the interest only lasts seconds, likely not even that.
If there’s one unspoken rule of courtesy on the ice, it’s that when somebody is doing a run-through of their program, then everybody else needs to move out of the way.
And maybe it had been his nerves, the distraction of the newcomer sitting next to Dazai against the boards, or perhaps just his own careless negligence, but his head is flat against the ice before he can register what had occurred; it takes him more than a couple seconds following the incident to lift his head and take in the situation, and it only sinks in when he hears the painful groan of a boy gripping his knee whilst leaning on his side.
The boy who had been in the middle of his program was moving backwards, not looking over his shoulders, which shouldn’t have been too much of his concern in the first place considering that he had the right of way with his program music running. But now, Atsushi, disoriented, rubs a sore spot on the back of his head as the boy clings to his knee, and only then does he realize that Dazai had shuffled across the ice to kneel beside him.
“Atsushi!” Dazai shrieks. “Are you alright? Tanizaki, did you fall on your knees?”
The boy that Atsushi had run into giggles nervously, waving his hands between them. “Ah, don’t worry, I’m alright! I wasn’t looking over my shoulder.”
Atsushi’s eyes widen as his head begins to clear. “Oh my God… I’m- No, I’m so sorry, I’m-”
As Atsushi stutters and stumbles to find the proper words of a jumbled apology, another coach approaches and helps the other boy, who Atsushi is now aware is named Tanizaki, stand up. Tanizaki pats the ice off his clothing and applies pressure to his leg, testing out the tenderness.
“I’m all good,” Tanizaki says, smiling apologetically. “I’ll just sit for a minute and it’ll be fine.”
“It’s all my fault,” Atsushi whines, wincing at the sudden, dizzying pain from the back of his head. “I wasn’t paying attention, it’s… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”
“Don’t apologize!” Tanizaki reassures quickly. “It happens. I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”
“You shouldn’t have to!” Atsushi shouts. “God, I shouldn’t even be out here-”
But Dazai swiftly interferes and crouches down to pull Atsushi off the ice by his arm, observantly noting the way that Atsushi’s breathing begins to come in ragged pants, the manner in which his body is trembling.
“C’mon, Atsushi!” Dazai chirps. “Let’s go take a break. You ought to try something in the food court. The sandwiches are quite delectable.”
So he ends up seated in a high top chair in the food court with an ice pack pressed against the back of his head, Dazai sitting across from him, a picked apart sandwich discarded on the table.
“It’s okay, Atsushi,” Dazai reiterates. “Tanizaki is alright, and so are you. So let’s drop it, shall we?”
Atsushi hangs his head low. “Alright.”
“Great!” Dazai chirps. “Now eat something.”
The food in front of him looks utterly repulsive in his eyes, though it’s not the meal itself. The food that settles in his stomach as he skates makes him feel nauseous, thus he prefers to simply not eat at all.
As he simmers in silence, Atsushi allows his mind to wander. He’d already made a complete fool of himself within the first few hours, the worst first impression probable, so he’s thoroughly certain that no coach would be willing to take him on as a student. He’s far from the best skater in the facility, so surely there’s far more significant matters to attend to besides himself. He’s a complete mess, and he’s well aware of it. They’ve hardly got room for him regardless.
Dazai continues to stare at him as Atsushi pouts and slouches in his seat, mindless hands sliding the ice pack around on the back of his head, carelessly ruffling his matted hair.
Though, after a while, he’s shaken from his thoughts by a foreign sound.
It’s an unusual clicking sound, like some sort of metal bar shifting and smacking against the rubber mats of the floors; Atsushi looks up to recognize that same boy, the one he’d noticed just before the accident.
As he limps by them, Atsushi can observe him in a much closer proximity, and now that he’s obtained a clearer view, it’s evident that the boy is much paler and thinner than he could have predicted from his tainted view. His hair is oddly long in the front and unevenly trimmed in the back, though each strand is astray and knotted, his irises hued so deeply that Atsushi is sure they’re completely black.
Dazai lifts his head in response to his presence, frowning as they make eye contact.
“Akutagawa, you’ve simply got to stop walking around so much. You’re going to make yourself worse.”
That name is somewhat familiar to Atsushi, he’s certain that he’d heard it before, but he can’t place it.
Akutagawa stills and then scoffs, averting his gaze. “Quit acting like you’re concerned about me.”
“Just because you’re no longer my student doesn’t mean that I’m going to completely disregard your health,” Dazai says harshly. Quietly, Atsushi notes the apparent tension between the two, the way that Dazai’s attitude instantly shifted the very second that Akutagawa entered the room. “Why exactly are you here anyway? You should be at home resting.”
“I’m taking on a few students,” Akutagawa says. “I’d much prefer to keep myself busy than sit at home and sulk.”
Dazai raises an eyebrow, an unreadable expression on his face as he inhales and lays his head in his hands, clinging to silence as he thinks. After a moment, he speaks. “So that means you’ve got plenty of time for another student, correct?”
“I suppose,” Akutagawa shrugs. “Why?”
“How would you feel about taking on my friend here?” Dazai asks cheerfully, opening his arms towards Atsushi, who curls in on himself when Akutagawa shifts his attention towards him. It’s the first time that he’d cared enough to look in Atsushi’s direction, the way his eyes squint tightly tells Atsushi that it’s possible he hadn’t even noticed him until that moment. The look in his eyes is exceptionally judgmental as he shifts to move closer, tilting his head. Unconsciously, Atsushi leans backwards.
“Aren’t you the guy who wiped out Tanizaki on the ice today?” Akutagawa inquires. “No thanks, I prefer students with a little bit of poise.”
“Hey!” Atsushi shouts. “Who said you could talk to me like that?”
Akutagawa’s eyebrows cinch together, his free hand clenching into a fist by his thighs. “I did. Do you think you have any chance of making it here? Stay on your feet for more than five seconds on the ice and I might consider Dazai’s offer.”
“Don’t consider it!” Atsushi barks. “I’d rather work with anybody else. Who even are you, anyways?”
“Actually,” Dazai interrupts. “Akutagawa here was second at senior nationals a few years back, and my former student.”
There’s a heavy emphasis on the word ‘former’ which makes Atsushi all too curious of its origins, though he suppresses the curiosity for the time being, as he’s too preoccupied with the obstacle in front of him.
“No way,” Atsushi mutters, his throat suddenly dry and scratchy. “That was you? But you’re…”
“I’m what?” Akutagawa hisses, taking another step forward, close enough that Atsushi can feel warm breath against his face.
“Nothing!”
Akutagawa’s shoulders are so tense that they’re pulling the fabric of his jacket, a slight tint to his pallid cheeks shining through, that of a dusty red sunset. With Akutagawa so close to him, Atsushi can note the way his bangs stick to his pale forehead from perspiration, the manner in which his eyes are heavily down-turned and jaded, deep creases around the corners.
“Why don’t we just give it a try?” Dazai suggests. “One lesson, just to try it out. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll find another coach for Atsushi.”
“No,” Akutagawa grumbles.
“I suppose you were never one to follow orders,” Dazai shrugs. “Perhaps you just couldn’t handle it. I mean, I expected more from you, but I should know better by now.”
The way that Akutagawa’s eyes widen is almost concerning, his body nearly giving out beneath him as the crutch under his arm keeps him from toppling to the ground; his lips press together firmly, all the faint and dim color that had previously painted his face for just a fleeting second altogether vacated from his white cheeks.
Atsushi almost feels a twinge of guilt in his chest; even he can understand just how manipulative such a phrase is, even if he’s unfamiliar with the two’s history. Though, it seems that Akutagawa can’t at all recognize that he’s being persuaded.
“Tomorrow morning. Six A.M.. If you’re a minute late, I won’t even consider taking you on full time,” Akutagawa growls. “Now, I’ll be excusing myself, thank you.”
He turns around on his heel and trudges through the doors to the rink, disappearing into the locker room as Atsushi sits with his mouth wide open. “You’re serious about him coaching me? Why?”
Dazai shrugs. “I hate to say it, but he’s a good coach and skater. Or... was until his health got in the way. He knows what he’s talking about. Just give it a try, I think it’ll work if you let it.”
Atsushi sighs and stands from his seat languidly, his shoulders hunched and head hanging. “That guy is seriously going to rip me apart tomorrow, isn’t he?”
“We’ll just have to wait and see. Now, in the meantime-” He pauses abruptly, breath catching in his throat before he suddenly drops his head into his hands and groans. “Here we go.”
“Huh? Dazai? What’s wrong-”
“Dazai!” comes a deep, livid voice from around the corner, the sheer volume of it reverberating off the brick walls, thoroughly shaking the tables and chairs. “I’m going to kill you!”
“Chuuya,” Dazai sighs. “What a pleasure.”
“Cut it out, asshole,” hisses Chuuya, furious fists bunching the fabric of Dazai’s jacket, knuckles protruding sharply from beneath his skin. “Where’s my hockey bag? I have a game in thirty minutes.”
“I haven’t a clue,” Dazai sings, looking away towards the menu board. “Oh! Atsushi, would you like to share some fries? I’m still a bit hungry.”
“Don’t ignore me!” Chuuya shouts. “This isn’t funny. You’re going to get me in trouble with the coach again.”
Dazai rolls his eyes in annoyance. “I couldn’t possibly know where you leave your disgusting equipment lying around. You really ought to take better care of your belongings, Chuuya.”
Chuuya tightens his grip on Dazai’s jacket, leaning in close as to intimidate him, though it’s obvious that Dazai isn’t shaken in the slightest. In fact, it’s quite likely that he’s enjoying the commotion just a little too much.
“But,” Dazai says suddenly. “If I were you, I’d check the dumpster out back. Just in case.”
There’s a beat of total stillness where neither of the two breathes, hardly a blink or a subtle twitch; though Chuuya seems to realize that he’s being provoked heavily, thus he sighs and releases his grip on Dazai’s jacket, turning his back to him as if nothing had happened. He begins to walk out into the hallways calmly, waving a wrist above his head. How his irate attitude had suddenly shifted from angered to nonchalant in a matter of seconds is unsettling, so much so that even Dazai seems just slightly taken aback.
“Lock your doors, Dazai,” he announces passively, exiting without another word.
Dazai’s eyes are wide and stunned, his gaze scanning the room as Chuuya leaves.
“That’s not good,” Dazai whispers. “He usually acts up and causes a scene…”
“Well, that’s mildly concerning,” Atsushi says nervously.
“Mildly?” Dazai repeats. “No, Atsushi, you don’t understand. This is bad. He’s never going to leave me alone now.”
“I think that’s sort of your fault,” Atsushi mutters. “It’s not like he’ll do anything that serious.”
“I did loosen the screws on his blades last week.”
“That’s… Oh.”
Dazai shrugs and stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder before throwing out his trash and pushing in his chair. “Chuuya can’t outsmart me anyway. He’s got more height than he does brains.”
“He looked really angry,” Atsushi says, removing the ice pack from the back of his head, realizing that it had become near lukewarm, the frost on the outside completely melted. He frowns.
“Atsushi, I believe you’ve got your own problem to worry about,” Dazai states suggestively, Atsushi’s body stiffening in response, sweat chilling on the back of his neck as he remembers.
Akutagawa. 6 A.M.. Tomorrow.
That night, he barely sleeps as anticipation eats away at his nerves, as he startles awake the very second his body begins to ebb the bounds of sleep.
His alarm rings the next morning, but he had no need to set it in the first place.
“Tomorrow morning. Six A.M.. If you’re a minute late, I won’t even consider taking you on full time.”
“Wonderful,” he mutters into his pillow.