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A comfortable silence hovered between the three occupants of the dorm as Usahara lay haphazardly on his bed, Kumatani shuffled through homework assignments, and Uramichi dropped his unzipped duffle bag onto his bed. Feeling a slight tightness in his shoulder blades, he threw his arms behind his back and stretched, a few pops ringing out, before he set to filling his bag with the usual: workout clothes, slippers for the locker room, and the like. He had just a few minutes left till practice, but Uramichi had perfected his trip to the gym to a tee so there was no need for worry.
Every day was the same. He'd long since forgotten about the unexpected.
"Uramichi, you're planning to go pro, right?"
Well, that was unexpected. The question did not fully register at first, but the word "pro" was enough to stun Uramichi out of his monotonous packing nevertheless, his hand stilling just before the mouth of his duffle bag. In the background, Kumatani cut his attention from his papers and a new set of eyes fell upon Uramichi.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, after college. Aren't you going to turn pro? Maybe even join the national team?" Usahara asked as he finally raised his head to look at the senior athlete and Uramichi froze—a deer in headlights.
He hadn't thought of that. Or rather, he'd given it too much thought and had only succeeded in stressing himself out rather than coming up with an answer. Gymnastics... was a touchy subject.
Uramichi did not possess his own dream in the sport, he only knew his father's wish. He'd always been pushed towards athletics. It was simple. Obey and you wouldn't get thrown onto the mat. Granted, he'd long outgrown such punishments and had the ability to leave, but the conditioning still remained.
With the way things were going, he was on track to become a pro. First in rankings in men's gymnastics in his college. A frequent top 3 winner. There was no technical reason for him not to go pro.
But he harbored no real desire for it.
There was no drive, no authentic passion. His eagerness to train was the result of knowing that he was lost without it. He enjoyed it to some extent, but surely not enough to go pro.
"I'm not sure yet." Uramichi replied, resuming his packing. He was almost done. He sped up anyways. "Why'd you ask?"
"Just curious." Usahara shrugged. He dropped his head limply onto the mattress to stare at the ceiling and Kumatani resumed his reading. "It's not every day that you get to room with the star of the college, ya know?"
"Ah." With a graceful arc that had been burned into him, Uramichi slung the strap of the duffle bag onto his shoulder just as an eagerness to escape filled him. He knelt down to the floor and swiped his water bottle with his unoccupied hand before making his way to the door. "I'll be back later."
"Have fun."
Am I planning to go pro?
The stupid question would not leave his head no matter how much he tried to ditch it. The mat sunk under his palms as he slunk back, head tipping to stare at the blinding fluorescent lights above while he sucked in a few breaths. He'd just failed one of his maneuvers and all he could focus on was the question.
Damn Usahara and his curiosity.
"Uramichi, are you done for today?" His coach inquired, strolling up. He was definitely searching for a reason for his inaction, hawk-like eyes searching for signs of injury or stress.
Oh, if only it were the former. As much as the thought flooded him with guilt, there were times where Uramichi wished an injury upon himself. An injury was his only shot at taking a break. Nothing too permanent, but enough to keep him out of the gym for a week or two. It'd just be a small break. It wouldn't hurt, right? It'd give him time to reevaluate—maybe even grant him the chance to take a breath and find himself...
But, no, that wouldn't do. Uramichi was also deathly afraid of injuries. One small mistake could lead to the end of all that he was good at. He hadn't been able to figure out his future for the past three years. What would a couple weeks do? A break would only set him behind. It'd waste his time left at college. As much as he wanted a period of rest, he couldn't afford it and couldn't risk it. Not with his current plan of inaction. It was best to simply trek on the path that was laid out for him.
Pushing off of the mat, Uramichi willed himself to stand. His hand drifted to his hair, fingers running through sweaty locks, the result of his countless attempts. He tried to ignore the watchful look that his coach gave him from the corner of his eye as he padded past.
"No, no. I'm still on."
Without much thought, he stepped onto the vault track's starting line, his limbs slack and muscles relaxed. He went through the maneuver in his head, feeling the phantom movement, before turning his attention onto the vault. One breath. Two breaths. Uramichi sparked to life and took off, heading straight for the vault.
Palms slamming against the apparatus, Uramichi sprang himself into the air, wind rushing past his ears and the sounds of the gym melting away. He usually did not have issues finding himself in the air, but the moment his finger tips left the sturdy surface of the vault, he knew he was lost. Unable to pinpoint his position in his flight, Uramichi panicked. Instinctively, he tried to pull off a few twists and save the situation, but ultimately bailed. Colliding shoulder first, Uramichi tumbled heavily onto the blue mat.
He didn't bounce back as most gymnasts did. Instead, he lay on his back in a daze and took a few seconds to assess himself. His shoulder smarted slightly, but other than that, all was well. Nothing harsh. Nothing catastrophic. He'd live, always did. Pushing himself up with his elbows, his plan to retry the exercise was foiled. A shadow fell over him.
"Enough." Uramichi glanced up in surprise and found his coach's stern face. It contained no malice, but it also hosted no room for disobedience. "Go rest."
"...I haven't even done the rings yet."
"You've practiced enough today and you're clearly distracted. I don't need you injuring yourself."
He internally cringed at the observation. Usually he was better at masking his thoughtlessness when these days washed upon him. To leave right now almost felt like giving up on precious training time. Seeing Uramichi's hesitancy, his coach outstretched an awaiting hand. It wasn't a request. Uramichi accepted the lift and got pulled onto his feet. He received a firm pat on the back as he shuffled by.
"Come back tomorrow fresh and ready."
With that out of the way, his coach spun on his heel and went to shadow another student, leaving Uramichi to stare at the training hall and its occupants dejectedly. Heading towards the changing room, Uramichi left the sounds of heavy thudding and hard practice behind.
Uramichi did receive joy from his craft. He considered his relationship with the sport to be a love-hate one, though not in the cutesy way as most athletes described it. Some days he'd find himself in a vigorous passion to practice. Other days, he'd barely be able to do the minimum. And yet, somehow, he'd always end up at the top. Uramichi wouldn't lie, it was pleasant to win.
Standing just a few steps away from the out of bounds of the floor, Uramichi stretched his arms to the ceiling as he held his finishing pose, bathing in the roar of the crowd and the flashes of cameras. In his current euphoria, he could probably bound across the floor and brush the ceiling with his fingers if he wished. His heart hammered and his chest rose with each breath. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck and over his collarbone. He could still feel the vibrations that had coursed up his bones from such a high velocity landing, but he had finished with a strong pose and that's all that mattered. His eyes roamed the crowd. In his excitement, Usahara was nearly keeling over the railing of the stands and, although Kumatani's hands were busy holding the back of Usahara's shirt to keep him from toppling, Kumatani also harbored a dazzled expression. His fellow teammates made their voices heard from the sidelines as they bunched around his coach who stood with a proud look on his face. A look that told Uramichi all that he had to know.
Dropping his arms, Uramichi took the few final steps off of the floor and was instantly swarmed by his college crew. Congratulations soared past him so fast that his mind did not even register them. His brain was still settling from all his aerial tricks and his synapses were still cooling from firing at breakneck speed during the routine. He only tuned back in once his feet were planted on the pedestal and a gold medal hung around his neck, resting heavily upon his chest.
A testament to his ability to fly freely through the air.
It was at times like these that he remembered what it was like to love gymnastics.
A shackle to his uncertain relationship with gymnastics.
It was also at times like these that he remembered what it was like to curse his abilities.
Uramichi did not hate to win.
He hated being so good that it would be a shame to quit if the desire ever fully overcame him.
"Uramichi, I have no clue how the hell you don't crack your skull every time you do that, but that was sick!" Usahara's eyes burned bright. A bit too bright.
"It's all just practice."
Keep it humble. Maybe it wouldn't escalate.
"You're practically Olympics worthy! Japan's gonna win a lotta golds with you."
It always would in the end. With his status, such predictions were never ending.
The vacant locker room was hauntingly silent as he sat hunched over on a bench, palms pressed to his eyes so tightly that colorful abstract shapes danced through the darkness. The door of his locker hovered in the air, forgotten a couple minutes ago. He'd opened it and had gotten half-way through changing before it all became too much.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
His lungs felt boxed in. His ribcage wouldn't allow for much expansion and his chest squeezed in the terrible way that it always did when he lingered too long on his uncertainties. There was nothing wrong physically. His physical condition was top notch—his internal state was the problem. Graduation was coming fast. Just a couple more months and then he'd have to face the beast from which he had hid for years.
Become pro or quit.
It was much too late to quit. Much too late after he had invested so much time and money into the sport. Much too late after he had endured his father's heavy handed tactics to get him to train. Much too late when he did not have anything else as an alternative.
He loosened his hands, letting them fall down to grip the bench and stabilize him, and Uramichi blinked the blurriness away. After going through his nonexistent options, there was only one solution. He'd have to learn how to love gymnastics, even if he had to force it.
Fake it till you make it, right?
It was the only way to survive. If he did not love it, he'd fall apart along the road, and all his years of work would be thrown away. All wasn't lost yet. Perhaps he could still salvage his relationship with the sport. Take his father's wishes out of the equation and substitute them with his own. Uramichi adored the rush of power that came with the sport. He held a near inhuman control over his body because of gymnastics. How many people could boast of such an accomplishment?
Uramichi breathed out.
Yes... that could work.
Pushing off with his hands, Uramichi got onto his feet and grabbed the last articles of clothing and his bag from the locker. He closed it gently, sliding the lock shut. And paused. He held onto the cool metal for a few seconds, wracking his mind for whatever it was that he was contemplating. He ended up empty in his search. Hesitantly, his fingers uncurled themselves from the lock and attached themselves to the strap of his bag.
Flicking off the lights, Uramichi left the gym building and made his way down the silent, darkened trail back to the dorms.
He'd be back in the gym tomorrow as usual.