Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sumire’s legs dangle from the forgotten desk. 

She bites the remaining half of her daifuku mochi: the strawberry gives the chewy paste a delicate bitterness, which she drowns in green tea from her pink thermos. The buzz of Shujin’s ventilation system whirs through the rooftop, yet as much as it is loud, it still is a better company than none at all.

Letting her palm slip backward on the wood, she draws in a breath of effervescent air, full with the blooming of spring. The sky is a clear blue behind the fence, with buildings peeking from the corner of her eye.

“I should set off to the gym…”

Her words get lost in the buzz of the engines.

An intermittent vibration shakes through the desk. She straightens up her posture and picks the smartphone from the side pocket of the schoolbag. The name ‘Sakura Futaba’ appears on the screen. 

She frowns. Why would Futaba-senpai call her?

“He—"

“Hey, Sumi!” The other’s voice knocks her down.

“Futaba-senpai, good afternoon!”

A laugh crackles from the other side.

“Stop calling me that! If anything, you’re my senior now. You’re the true Senpai here.”

“But we don’t even attend the same school. And besides, I was the last one to join the group so, technically speaking, you’re all my seniors.” She slips the glasses further up on her nose with her pinkie, so as not to stain them with sugary cornstarch. “How are you doing? May I help you?”

“Always so formal! Geez. Anyway—” The voice is cut by a noisy group of people passing by. Futaba mutters something in the speaker. “I hate loud students I swear, that’s beyond my current level of skill – anyway, I was saying. Yeah, all good. Started school today. I hate it but also kinda don’t. Does it make sense?”

Sumire laughs. “I’m not sure I follow, but I am sure that you can definitely handle it, Senpai!”

“Yeah, I know! But still, this is a lot. Maybe I’m just under-leveled. Maybe I should’ve farmed more. Ugh.”

She cleans her fingers on the tissue spread over her bento to get rid of all the stickiness.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Oh, you’re already doing it! That’s why I called you. I need to get to the subway – you see, my school is a little more distant from the station than Shujin is from Aoyama-Itchome. So, I needed an assist. A support! But I didn’t want to bother Sojiro or Akira and – well, I promised him I would’ve done things on my own, haven’t I?”

She loops a strand of hair around her index finger. It would be very unkind of her to ask Futaba to repeat herself, so she plays along.

“I… suppose that’s true?”

“Exactly! I didn’t want to text the others either since everyone is, like, super busy, so I called you. See? I’m basically gaining exp just from making this call and I’m heading to the metro. Woohoo.”

“Oh, that’s great news! …I think?”

“Yeah. But enough of me. How are you?”

The genuine interest knocks her off like some invisible hands are strangling the pit of her stomach. How should she answer that? It’s okay with other people around but as soon as she’s left alone all the positive energy gets drained out of her like it never belonged there in the first place – classic Sumire fashion. Well, better not worry Futaba with that.

“I’m doing quite ok, thank you.”

The lack of an immediate response gives space to the noise of cars passing by. And of her pulse against her skull.

“Are you sure?”

Come on, you can do better, Sumire.

“Yes! I mean, it got a bit lonely here since everyone left, but… I’m managing just fine.”

A sigh comes from the other side.

“I guess we barely had the time to get together for Makoto and Haru’s ceremony, huh? Then we all took our separate ways. I’m still happy we were able to do that, though. And in any case, we still have the group chat, guarded and encrypted by your local Oracle, the one and only!”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I know it sounds Out Of Character coming from me, but why don’t you try to be more active? You’re 110% part of the group, everyone likes you! Especially Ryuji. I know he was waiting for a real jock to show up.”

Sumire chews on the inner part of her cheek, which 110% got flushed. She’s arguably been the first who neglected the group chat, but apart from helping Akira exit juvenile, had she ever really been one of them? Even while infiltrating the Lab, she spent most of her early days learning how to keep up with combat, Personas, and the battle flow.

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, of course!” Futaba goes on. “I understand that with all your training and duties as a gymnast your schedule must be hell—"

“I’m on hiatus, actually,” her voice betrays her.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

Her cheeks must be 210% redder now, burning against the chilly air of early April. How rude – she wasn’t supposed to react like that.

Get a hold of yourself, Sumire!

“No, don’t worry! I haven’t… really talked about it to anyone. Akira-senpai may very well be the only one who knew.”

“Ohhh, I see. Then enjoy your break, I guess...?”

“Thank you. It’s been quite useful up until now! I’m just focusing on strength and keeping myself active.”

“That’s super cool!” The screeches of trains approaching invade the phone call. “Well, I reached my destination! Checkpoint one: conquered. Now, to the quick travel back home!”

A half-huff, half-laugh flows out of her lips at the mental picture of Futaba gesturing towards the air.

“Have a safe trip, then.”

“Sure! Thanks for supporting me. If you’ll ever need a distraction, my whole Neo-Featherman BD collection is yours to watch. Bye Sumi!”

“Goodbye.”

She hangs up the call and, as if summoned, a text from Akira appears on the group chat.

Yeah, I wonder why I’m barely active…

The sole thought moves the melting from her face to the whole rest of her body. With a sour aftertaste, she grabs the schoolbag, hops off the desk, and opens the rooftop door towards the stairs.

The burn of muscles stretching and sweat building up at the base of her neck is as familiar and soothing as performing an old and well-tested routine – maybe even more so. Endure the pain and pressure, then pause to breathe. Endure, breathe. And so on as the sequence lasts.

Sumire forces the air in and out of her lungs, fighting the urge to drop the stretch there and then. Bet she can bend her back on the ring split even more if she focuses. She pushes her neck just a bit more backward and there it is, the absolute tension of muscles coursing through her abdomen, lower back, legs and feet.

Just twenty more seconds Sumire, don’t stop.

Keeping active isn’t enough. Two months without a full training session like the ones she’s used to and her body is already presenting the bill. No good, no good.

Eighteen… nineteen… and twenty!

“Oof!”

She exhales one final bundle of air and exhaustion and lets her right leg fall from the bench she was stretching onto. She savors the sweet rush of release bursting through her.

“Sumire!”

Coach Hiraguchi is waving at her, gesturing for her to come closer. She gets up – challenging a gravity that weighs ten times the normal amount – and sorely walks towards the woman.

“Hi, Coach!”

Dark and sharp eyes scrutinize her, the way they have for a whole year now; the way she’s got used to.

“How are you feeling today? I saw you struggling a bit with splits.”

Sumire pulls the best smile she can manage to get, with guilt churning in her gut. Truly, she can’t hide anything from the same person who spotted her fake recital as Kasumi.

“Yes… I’ll keep working as usual, though! I completed all the leg exercises, now I’ll go on with back and shoulder stretching.”

Coach Hiraguchi smiles in return, a tiny one. “Good. I’m glad you’re still taking this seriously – it’s always been one of your virtues.” Her expression reverts to a serious one. “For this reason, I’m sorry to interrupt your warm-up, but we need to talk. Please come to my office.”

She walks out of the training hall. 

Sumire throws on the club’s hoodie and slips on the training sneakers, the insole sticking under her still bare feet. She follows the woman through the corridors of the sports center, her muscles dull from the hard work and a lump stuck in her throat. Whatever this is about, it feels like her tranquil time is over.

She enters a room packed with old trophies and medals, photos of past competitions, and a whiteboard with papers and sticky notes scattered on it which alone takes a wall for itself. Coach Hiraguchi slides between a locker and a bulky wooden desk and sits on the office chair, and gestures to Sumire to settle in on the one in the front.

She sits down, the cool wood on her bare skin making her shiver. She tucks her hands away inside the long sleeves of her leotard and hoodie and plays with the lycra hem.

“What did you want to tell me, Coach?”

Coach Hiraguchi draws a breath, her forehead wrinkled like she wants to give bad news but doesn’t know how to.

“Your supervisor at Shujin called me today.”

The room turns to ice. Goosebumps grate against the skin-tight leotard.

“Oh.”

“Your second year began today, correct?”

She nods.

“Well, he asked me about your competition schedule for the year to come, so that the school can ‘provide support as best as they can’ and ‘account for the amount of flexibility you will need in order to take your lessons and exams’. I guess you know what this means, right?”

Of course. It’s like that day in Dr. Maruki’s Palace, with her limbs frozen still, and another semblance of tranquility shattered by the barging in of reality.

She speaks barely louder than her heart is beating.

“Yes. They’re… probably going to suspend my scholarship if I don’t compete on the international scene anymore.”

“I imagined that, too.” She crosses her legs. Her face opens up in a sly smile and everything warms up as if hit by the light. “That’s exactly why I lied to him.”

“I – I’m sorry, what?”

That subtle smirk turns into a textbook grin.

“Yes, I told him that everything has yet to be defined since you turned sixteen this year. This means you’ll compete as a senior, and that alone is a change not to be underestimated. Furthermore, we’re in the year right after the Rio Olympics – this means changes in the Code of Points and all that. Essentially, I covered you by saying that we’re still in the process of defining a strategy for your upcoming competitions.”

Sumire’s eyes prick at the corners. She doesn’t deserve her patience and understanding.

“Thank you very, very much Coach Hiraguchi. I’m sorry I haven’t come to a decision yet. This situation is still all my fault.”

The woman stretches over the desk and sets a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t say that. Sure, you have to find your answer and take responsibility for it – whatever your choice will be. But you’re coming out of a tough year, Sumire. Many people in your situation would have simply dropped the sport and moved on. You’re still here, and you’re still training at your best given the circumstances you’re in. This alone should prove how much you’ve grown.”

Her face heats up.

“So you’re not here to lecture me?”

“I think I’ve lectured you enough in the past months.” She winks like the devil. “And it certainly isn’t all on me, but you stopped acting like Kasumi, so let me reclaim just a little bit of merit and say that it worked.” Her hand moves down to her forearm and squeezes it. Her carbon eyes embrace her whole. “I can tell you’re different from the girl you used to be. You’re moving on. But for this exact reason, you have to make a decision now.”

Sumire forces out a tight smile. It’s the least she can do.

“Yes. I suppose I’ve always known, deep down, that this standstill couldn’t keep up, ever since I asked for the hiatus.” She clenches her fists and her nails dig in the fabric. “What should I do now?”

Coach Hiraguchi releases her arm but keeps her gaze focused.

“Well, that is up to you to decide. If you ask me, you have two options right now: to stop training at a competitive level or to get back on the international scene. You wanted to win the Olympic gold, didn’t you? That isn’t something you can aim towards with a fickle resolve.”

Exhaling, she slouches a little more in the chair. Regardless of awakening to a Persona three times (and a half), her determination always seem to melt like butter.

“Right.”

“I’m not saying you have to, mind you. You have all the rights in the world to call it quits and find another dream – that wouldn’t make all the progress you’ve made in the years a waste, because they would’ve made you the person you’re now.”

Sumire nods. Coach Hiraguchi laughs.

“You’re not convinced.”

She takes a deep breath that weighs way too much on her chest.

“Coach, thank you for your kind words. I really appreciate it. It’s just that… the thought of stopping gymnastics entirely scares me. It’s such a big part of who I am that I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what to do with my life if I gave up now.” Her throat burns but she swats the crying down. “At the same time, I don’t think I can give you my answer today. I’m sorry.”

Coach Hiraguchi nods.

“That’s fine. It’s a big decision to make.” She taps the desk with a pensive face. “Here’s what I can do: give you all the elements and variables so you can evaluate everything and decide accordingly. Ok?”

The offering alone makes the headache born by overwhelming information slow down its spreading. 

“Yes, please. That would help me greatly.”

“All right.” She smiles. “First of all, I’ll keep Shujin at bay for another week. This is the time I’m able to give you – any more, and they’ll start getting suspicious.” She grabs a sticky note and scribbles something on it. “Then, the choice. I can’t tell you how things will be if you decide to stop competing. But if you want to aim for the Olympics? That I can do.”

She opens a drawer and pulls out a competition announcement and a discreet pile of papers. She hands her the single sheet.

“This is the convocation for the rhythmic gymnastics national team selection. Junior and senior. It’ll take place this summer in Takasaki. That is the first step to the international senior scene.”

The paper reads 14 and 15 of July – precisely during exam week. Great. Sumire hands it back to her coach, who pushes the paper bundle forward.

“This is the official 2017-2020 Code of Points by the International Gymnastics Federation. All the rules, allowed elements, and criteria of judgment are written here, alongside the qualification rules and procedures for Tokyo 2020. If you wish to aim for the Olympics, you must study this and know what you’ll be facing. As I mentioned, some major changes have been made since the last code.”

Sumire grabs the papers – it must be at least one hundred pages. She swallows. She never had to face the Code of Points directly.

“This is… a lot.”

Coach Hiraguchi smiles. “It is. But this decision will likely change the path in your life, so it must be a very well-informed one. I trust you to be diligent and take everything into account.”

“I will. Thanks, Coach. You’re doing a lot for me.”

I’m not even sure I deserve it.

The woman gets up and steps by her side. 

“Hey, I've known you since you were little. I watched you grow up. I just wish to put you in the best possible place to make this choice.” She raises a hand as to prevent whatever Sumire would say next. “And no, if you eventually decide that quitting competition is what’s best for you, I won’t resent you. Nor would you have wasted my time.”

Sumire shoots up and deeply bows.

“I can’t find the words to thank you properly, Coach.”

Hiraguchi forces her up by the shoulders and looks her straight in the eyes.

“It doesn’t matter. What’s important now is that you take your time to make this choice. You’re officially lifted from training – go home and start studying. I’ll see you in a week at the latest. And if you need help, just call me. Okay?”

“Yes!” she bows again. “Thanks, Coach. I’ll be on my way home, then!”

Sumire dashes through the empty corridors, her feet jiggling in the loose sneakers. She skips past the gym, past the training hall, and opens the door to the locker room. Her chunky training bag is waiting for her under the Shujin uniform, left hanging from above.

The house is quiet.

Sumire slips out of her shoes and places them in the rack. The first step she presses on the parquet sounds like an alarm. The low humming of the fridge resounds from the kitchen, and a faint clank of dishes and rattling of chairs comes from upstairs. Scribbled on the notepad in the entry there are two lines: ‘Your mother is still with your grandma. I’m on the evening shift today, I’ll be back late at night. Love you.’

She rolls her eyes – dad can definitely be old-fashioned at times. She picks up the pen and adds her response.

‘My new phone works very well dad, you can start using mails again <3’

She adjusts the gym bag on her shoulder and strides right to her room. She flicks on the little lamp on her desk and pulls out the pile of papers – some angles folded and wrinkled here and there on the way back home, but they’re still readable.

She sits on her stuffed red chair, grabs a pencil and a notebook, and scratches her nails on the first page, the one with Fédération Internationale De Gymnastique and 2017-2020 Official Code of Points for Rhythmic Gymnastics printed on it. She slides it aside to reveal the table of contents.

“Let’s see…”

Official championships, apparatus for individuals – oh, they’ll be excluding the rope for senior individuals. Her mouth twists in a grimace. It’s a pity they didn’t exclude the clubs. Far be it she gets lucky.

What follows are the timing and music rules, juries, technicalities about floor area and apparatus, the leotard dress code… have the Codes of Points always been this stuffed? Not that it doesn’t make sense – in hindsight, she truly lived a blessed and easy life with the shortened version provided by Coach Hiraguchi before designing her routines.

She shuffles a few more pages – and here they are. Individual exercises, starting with the Difficulty Points.

“I wonder if they changed any requirements—"

Her heart stops, weighed to the ground by a 5x3 chart listing the minimum and maximum of Difficulty elements to be performed in a single routine– or rather, the lack of a maximum.

“They… removed the D Score cap.”

This isn’t good. She always used to compensate lower Difficulty Scores with above-average Execution Scores – that’s how it always worked. Kasumi was the bold one, the one capable of extraordinarily high D Scores. E Scores have been Sumire’s kind-of-specialty since forever… but, without a limit to the Difficulty Points, gymnasts will surely try to boost their Difficulty and forego the Execution because it will net them more points in less time.

“Kasumi used to do that all the time…” 

All of her sister’s routines were built around that strategy – ‘D-score optimized’ she would call them. And Sumire tried to imitate them for months without a single satisfying result, even when she was convinced she was Kasumi.

She lays her cheek in the palm of her hand and moves on, skipping the specifics about the Body Difficulties evaluation. On to the apparatus specifics.

“I’ll miss you, dear rope,” she mumbles, turning another page. 

Seems like no major changes had been made on the hoop, ball, clubs, and ribbon technical elements. A series of wonky stick-gymnasts appear on the charts going forward, supposedly to explain how the exercises and positions are done.

She huffs. “They’re so ugly… I wonder how Yusuke-senpai would react to seeing them.”

Leaps and balances don’t seem to have changed much – apparently, you can put leaps in sequence and gain points for each of them separately as long as the sequence is not interrupted… which is a pity since that would require a lot more stamina than she has now. Pivots on the other hand…

“They left out the bonus points!”

She follows the printed lines with her index: the Code states that gymnasts don’t get an additional score if they connect two or more elements with pivots anymore – it all gets counted as one single Body Difficulty. Which is just another strike of Sumire Bad Luck.

And of course, the execution part is still capped at 10.00 – and it’s basically still the same as before.

She sighs. Between the last page of the individual section and the first page of the group section, another slimmer bundle of sheets is nested: the upcoming qualifying competitions for Tokyo 2020.

Sumire pushes the chair back – which gets stuck in the wrinkled carpet underneath – and tosses her body on the bed. The new Code of Points is practically built for Kasumi’s moves and skills and attitude. What space does she have left? It’s like fighting a shadow with mismatched elemental affinities.

And speaking about shadows…

She turns the phone and scrolls through her contact list. The name ‘Kurusu Akira’ pops up. Her thumb hovers above the screen. She shouldn’t involve him in this. Senpai put up with her enough by helping her figure out that what she needed at the time was a break from gymnastics – it’s not his fault Sumire trapped herself in just another limbo of her own creation because she can’t put her life together.

She locks the phone and throws it aside. With what face could she ever ask for advice now? After barely telling him goodbye that day at the station. After promising she would decide on her own. After… what happened in Leblanc that last day of January.

Sumire followed Akira inside of café Leblanc with a clap of thunder for a heart and half of her face buried in the scarf, making her glasses all foggy. It definitely had been a poorly thought idea to ask him to talk, but there was no turning back. If she had gathered up the courage to tell Coach Hiraguchi about her break, she could face her feelings as well. And besides, Coach had welcomed her decision unexpectedly well, so maybe this, too, wasn’t to be an absolute catastrophe—

Akira-senpai slid a cup of steaming hot coffee on the counter.

“Here.”

“Thank you.” 

The rich aroma filled her nostrils and a wave of bitterness flooded her mouth. 

“It’s delicious. Something about it is quite relaxing!” She put the cup down with an imperceptible clink. “Sorry to bother you. I hope I’m not causing any problems to the café by being here.”

“Don’t worry. As you can see, it’s pretty deserted today.”

She clenched her fingers around the white ceramic. “Right.”

The surface was warm against sweaty palms. A faint draft coming from the door hit her legs and made the hair stand against the pantyhose. A knot in her chest blocked every beginning of coherent sentence she could have thought of, so she just sputtered the big news out.

“I asked my coach for a hiatus.”

Silence.

“She said that it’s the best decision for now. If my mind isn’t set on the goal, I won’t have what it takes to break through the international scene, and she added that if I can’t secure my concentration on the exercises I’m performing, I also risk getting injured. She’s… not wrong.” Her throat ached the way it always did when she was about to burst into tears. “It hurts, a bit, but surely she knows what’s best for me—”

“Sumire.”

Her eyes met his, her face heating up.

Her name, she wanted to hear it as a call, not a warning. His grey irises focused on her, she wished they could have held an admiring gaze instead of the frown that was surely judging her.

“Yes?”

“Do you think taking a break was the right thing to do?”

She pressed her lips tight. Everything about this situation was the opposite of what she had been hoping for in the past month, but Senpai had been way too kind to her, and the least she could do was be honest. With him, and with herself.

“Yes.” She sipped another bit of coffee. “There is another reason I came here today. Senpai, you’ve helped me a great deal since we first met, and especially since rescuing me from Dr. Maruki’s Palace, my mind has cleared a bit day by day. And…”

She squeezed her body against the seat as if that would have helped her lighten the burden of what she needed to say.

“Since that time you accompanied me shopping, I realized something important. When I was acting as Kasumi, I thought I was competing to prove my worth and for my ‘sister’. When I turned back to being Sumire, I convinced myself it was still my duty to make Kasumi’s dream come true, and… since you were by my side, I enjoyed being watched by you. I… really, really liked it.”

She felt like she was combusting from the inside out, and the worst part had yet to come. She wanted to disappear. But she could only push forward.

“And then, Coach Hiraguchi brought up the hiatus again, and only talking to you I understood how right she was. I need to focus on what type of gymnast I want to be, and recover from the past to look towards the future.” She stretched a sore smile on her lips. “But Senpai, the truth is I’m not sure of what I’m doing with gymnastics anymore.”

Her fingers were shaking around the cup. Another hand, bigger and chillier covered them, making them firmer and making her core a molten pile of ashes.

“There’s something more to it, isn’t it?” Senpai’s voice lowered in tone and volume.

“Yes. I – this is so embarrassing to say. I swear it’s not my intention to complicate things further or to cause you any trouble, or – okay. I’ll say it.”

The corner of her eyes stung but this wasn’t the moment to let go. She forced herself to raise her chin and look him in the eyes, just past the reflection coming from the door and hitting his glasses. She got lost in those irises grey and stormy like clouds.

“I… like someone having their eyes on me. On the floor, when I fight, in everyday life. That someone is you. I – I love you.”

His pupils grew wider, and his lips parted, just the slightest. Maybe he never expected she would have said it out loud.

“Sumire…”

“I know you can’t return my feelings,” she blurted.

Creases formed between his eyebrows, like he was trying to add a new piece to the equation but without getting the expected result. She slipped her hand away from under his and mourned that bit of contact in silence.

“It’s simply true. Senpai, the others might have been too busy surveilling Akechi for whatever reason they have that I don’t understand, but I was watching you. It’s… pretty obvious, once you know what to look for.”

Akira slowly retreated from the counter and scratched the back of his neck with one hand, a troubled expression cracking on his face – a little bit of vulnerability that filled Sumire’s heart while also stinging it because it was a silent confession.

“Okay. What were my tells?”

She breathed in the scent of coffee and sipped another bit of it. The worst had passed at least, and as an intense routine that burns up all the adrenaline, just the quiet resignation and tiredness were left.

“Principally, the fights. He’d always be on the frontline, no matter how long the infiltration was taking. And, you always seem to keep an eye out for everyone but for him – it’s almost like you two instinctively know where the other is. Also, your combined attack sure is… something.”

“It’s ‘something,’ huh?”

“It’s cool, ok?” Her voice pitched up. “You two form a great pair. I might be a little jealous.”

She laughed that other bit of admission off and buried it in more coffee.

“Sumire.”

“Yes?”

Akira was studying her, his expression blank. She envied that ability of his.

“Since you’re an unexpectedly good observer, haven’t you… figured out why you were able to spot all those little things?”

She frowned. “Because I’m not prevented by what happened with Akechi before all of this started?”

He laughed, light and heartfelt and it made her melt. “Oh, that’s a big one for sure. But, Sumire – you were almost always on the frontline, too.”

The world swung before her eyes like after too many pivots practice. Her index raised on its own, pointing towards her face.

“I – yes, I suppose that is true?”

“You never realized?”

Her face was heating up again. What was he implying? The worst was supposed to have already passed.

“I just thought… since I was the last one to join, I had everything to learn so I imagined maybe some first-hand experience would make up for that. It seemed like you were mostly swapping me in and out like everyone else.”

Their toughest battles crossed her mind altogether – every major gauntlet, every new Mementos area. She had been there to fight all that.

“But you were not?” she asked, and it felt like stepping on thin ice.

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh.”

Was he really implying what she thought he was implying? But wouldn’t this complicate things even more? Wouldn’t she be getting in the way of him and Akechi? She had no right to—

“Also,” Akira broke the silence with a serious face, “you had a damn good knack for crits.”

“Senpai!” She stood up, her whole body ablaze with the wish to evaporate right there and then. She had completely lost her grip on the situation.

Akira hid his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shrugged.

“What I’m saying is – I’m glad you talked openly with me. I, uh, appreciate that you feel that way towards me.” He shifted his weight from leg to leg, his gaze lowering down. “I do. But this is… not the best moment to give you my answer.”

A thousand questions popped up in her head. When would she have a response, then, if she ever would? Was it because she wasn’t good enough? What did all of that mean? Why couldn’t he be more open, the way she had been with him? Maybe she didn’t deserve that. Maybe he just didn’t want to hurt her more with a clear refusal.

“I perfectly understand that,” her voice spilled, all on its own.

Akira-senpai stilled. 

She drew a long breath. There was something in the air she couldn’t grasp – something she didn’t understand. But, for hers and Senpai’s sake, she wouldn’t drag this unpleasant conversation for more than it was necessary – and that moment had already passed. 

She grabbed her school bag.

“I must thank you for your time and the coffee.” She bowed deeply, with her glasses slipping down her nose and her bangs hitting her eyelashes. “You helped me a great deal, and you’re right. Now I have to focus on myself. It’s the right thing to do.”

He frowned but said nothing. Well, it was on her to end this embarrassing exchange, and rightfully so. She could still put two and two together, after all.

“I’ll still keep active at the gym, but I’ll try to enjoy my break – hoping it will do me good!” She pulled out a smile, even she didn’t know where from. “We’re almost at the deadline Dr. Maruki gave us. You can count on me for everything.”

He eyed her. Nodded. “I’ll let everyone know if something changes.”

She opened the door, and the cruel January air hit her like a slap. The bell of Leblanc chimed behind her, and a hiccup shook her body up.

What the hell had just happened?

Sumire turns on her side on the bed.

“Dr. Maruki, huh…”

It seems like a lifetime ago.

She retrieves the phone and unlocks it. Senpai Akira’s number still stares back at her from the screen. She shouldn’t involve him in this. The decision is hers to make, and hers alone… but maybe it will do her some good to have someone listening to it all.

Wouldn’t she be bothering him though?

They hadn’t left on bad terms, exactly, but they never spoke about the exchange they had in Leblanc, either, and between the final fight in the Palace, Akira being sent to juvenile, and then returning home, they barely spoke a word at all. It doesn’t seem right nor appropriate to break radio silence with another load of her problems.

The clank of a key turning in the house door signals that her father is back.

She double-checks her phone: it’s thirty minutes past midnight.

“Great,” she groans, “I even forgot to have dinner.”

It’s ridiculous how a single decision can destabilize her so much she forgets to eat.

She jumps down from the bed to switch off the lamp on her desk and buries herself back under the duvet before her dad can notice she is still awake.

“Get yourself together, Sumire,” she whispers against the pillow. “It’s not pleasant, but you have to do it. Tomorrow, you’re calling Senpai.”

She closes her eyes.

Her attempt to sleep feels as hollow as her pep talk.

She waits until the day right before the deadline Coach Hiraguchi gave her.

With shaking fingers, half an eye open, and a raging storm for a heart, she sends the cursed message.

Sumire: Hello Senpai! How are you doing?

Kurusu Akira: hi Sumire
Kurusu Akira: all good here
Kurusu Akira: nothing special to tell, as expected from this place
Kurusu Akira: how are you?

Sumire: I’m okay, all things considered. I wouldn’t want to bother you, but perhaps you have some free time to talk? I’d like to clear my thoughts about something.

Kurusu Akira: sure, you can call right now if you want

Sumire’s thumb trembles over the screen. That was fast.

She holds her breath and presses the call button.

“Okay,” Akira’s voice comes from the speaker, slightly distorted. She misses talking to him in person but maybe it’s better this way. It’s easier to ruin everything in person, as previous personal experience has proved.

“Okay, I think I got the gist of it.”

“Sorry if it’s a bit messy…”

“Nah. I get it, really. If you decide to get back to competing, and you pass the selection for the National team, what would the next steps be?”

“Well, I’d have to participate in this year’s international meetings, like the World Championships. And… if I want to aim for Tokyo 2020, I’d have to obtain a qualifying spot in the 2019 World Championships, 2020 World Cup Series, or 2020 Continental Championships.”

“Okay, so you’d have some time before the real deal begins. This means you can train more, right?”

“…yes, you’re technically right.”

“But you’re still not sure of what to do?”

She sighs. “Yes, precisely. I don’t want your help to decide that, though. I learned my lessons. But since you helped me all the way through, I thought you were the best person to ask for an ear to lend me.”

“Sure. I’m more than happy to.”

The points of her ears burn. Good thing they’re not doing this face to face.

“Thank you very much, Senpai. In all honesty, I don’t think quitting gymnastics is the right thing to do. It’s a really important part of me and I don’t know if I’m ready to let it go. The problem is… I’m scared of what could be waiting for me if I go on.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know if I have what it takes to win an Olympic medal. I most certainly don’t have it right now, but who knows if I’ll ever gain it in the future. At the same time, I don’t want to let Coach Hiraguchi down, who’s been training me for all these years, and… it would feel a bit like disappointing Kasumi’s memory, too.”

He laughs. “You’re still putting the others before you, aren’t you?”

She jolts up on the bed. “That’s…!” She falls back on the mattress. “That’s true. But it’s difficult not to. I want to make the people I love proud of what I’ve become. I don’t want to fail anybody.”

“What if you shift the perspective? If you want to make them proud, then how? What is the you that they’d be proud of?”

She stares at the ceiling. It’s… a difficult question. Because it’s not a matter of how a person, generally speaking, can have a positive impact on others – it’s about her. How could Sumire Yoshizawa be her best self, since she barely knows how to be herself again?

An old memory is forming, in the shape of two blond ponytails…

“You know, I remember Ann-senpai telling me something, once. I admire her because she radiates such positive energy and is always there for her friends. She said that she aimed to be a light, that she wanted to be a model to inspire other people and make others happier.”

She nods to herself.

“I think a part of me wants to do something like that, too. I started with gymnastics because Kasumi did, and I wished to be like her… but many young girls I know got in the sport because they saw someone else perform it at a competitive level and wanted to do the same.

“Also,” she adds, the words flowing by themselves like a river, “gymnastics is what I know best. It’s simply impossible for me to imagine my life without it – it’s part of who I am. How am I supposed to find myself without the aid of a ribbon, or a hoop?”

“I’ve always wanted to see you perform,” Akira adds, low and quick as an afterthought.

Her heart skips a bit. Goodness gracious, she still has it bad, doesn’t she?

“I’m… quite okay with the ribbon, actually,” she mutters. “It’s always been my specialty. Which is kind of funny, because it is generally considered the most difficult apparatus.”

“I think I get why, but: why?”

“Because it needs to stay in constant motion, and the shapes you draw with it have precise regulations to follow. Oh, and it knots easily. You’re screwed if that happens.”

“Sounds hellish,” he laughs.

“Yeah… but I’ve always felt comfortable with it, for some reason. Maybe it’s because it’s particularly graceful – apparently, that’s my main quality. According to Coach Hiraguchi, at least.”

“I remember her saying something like that.”

Right, Senpai was there during that training…

“Coach also said something about Kasumi’s boldness. You see, her main apparatus was the clubs. It’s a close tie between clubs and ribbon for which is the hardest because, with the clubs, you have two objects to handle instead of one. And… also the music choices are usually stronger. Kasumi was such a badass with the clubs, I could never match her, no matter how hard I tried.”

“And still, she saw you as her rival.”

She blinks. And frowns. And opens her mouth and closes it. She had almost forgotten.

“Yes… you’re right. I guess Coach Hiraguchi also said that.”

“I know it can be difficult for you to witness that by yourself, but at least think about this: people see something in you that inspires them. Apparently, Kasumi did. She can’t be the only one and I’m pretty sure she’s not.”

Sumire passes a hand over her eyes and lets it fall over her head on the pillow. She can still try, can’t she? She knows the steps, she has a goal, she needs closure. And maybe she doesn’t have to limit herself to one single reason to go forward – they can be many.

She smiles.

“Senpai. I think I have my answer.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ll get back to the competitions. I’ll try entering the Olympic final. I’ll do my best to win it. I want to make everyone proud of me. I want to inspire other people with my routines. I want to learn more about myself and improve who I am, and… maybe I just want to show everyone what Sumire Yoshizawa is made of.”

She breathes in. “Senpai. Thank you. For hearing my thoughts. I feel a lot better now.”

He laughs. “Then what are you doing here? Go call your Coach! And keep me updated.”

“I will. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, Sumire.”

The phone slips from her hands like it gave her a shockwave and, as if electrified by it, she jumps on her feet and runs into the living room.

“Dad!”

He raises his gaze from a newspaper and looks at her.

“Sumire, you’re ecstatic. Something good happened?”

“I will be back to competing! I made my decision. I will try to climb the international scene up to the Olympics.”

A tight hug embraces her, warm and fresh-scented.

“I’m happy to hear you say it with such enthusiasm. I was worried for you during the past months but I didn’t want to interfere with your decision – it was your right to choose what you thought would be best for you. Are you sure this will make you happy?”

“Yes.” She nods. He’s still wearing the glasses she bought him. “I will make everyone proud.”

“Oh, but I already am. Your mother, too. You’ve grown so much, Sumire.”

She lets herself loose in his old home cardigan that smells like laundry and wooden furniture. Happiness rasps against her throat and in the corner of her eyes.

The air inside Coach Hiraguchi’s office is thick and makes speaking a real challenge. Or maybe it’s just her who needs to spit it out and get done with it.

She draws in a stuffy breath and breaks the tension with:

“I’ve decided to compete on the international scene. I will do my best to climb my way up to the Olympics!” She bows deeply, her fringe falling over her eyes, her heart like a drumroll of clubs on the floor in her chest. “Please take care of me, Coach Hiraguchi.”

Her coach nods with a pleased smile on her lips.

“I can sense your resolve. It won’t be easy, but with your grace and dedication, you can aim to the top of the gymnastics world. I am sure of it.”

The vibes that Hiraguchi radiates warm her from the bottom of her guts. She clenches the strap securing the stuffy bag on her shoulder, just to channel her energies somewhere.

“I will make our dream come true. Mine and Kasumi’s.”

“Good,” she sits on the chair and takes out a copy of all her five routines, jotted down on paper move by move. “Then, first of all, we have to adjust your exercises to the current Code. The selections will be held in three months, so we can’t let another minute go to waste.”

Sumire presses her lips tighter and nibs lightly at the lower one. Three months is in no way enough time to create, practice, and perfect a routine from scratch… and she’s always had trouble remembering her moves. As much as that problem was way more prominent when she was little, she still lacks Kasumi’s knack for adaptability.

“Actually…” she mumbles, “wouldn’t it be best if we only touch up the old exercises to align them with the new Code? I’m not sure I can be confident in four new routines with just three months of practice.”

Hiraguchi eyes her, dark eyebrows drawing closer.

“But those are the tracks you chose when you were under the ghost of Kasumi. Are you sure you can follow them now?”

Shame sticks to her like the heat of summer in Tokyo. Still, her poor choices return to torment her… she wasn’t in her right mind when she insisted on those tracks, but there’s nothing she can do about that now. Better relate on muscle memory, treading a path she carved into her body in the course of a year than starting brand new without the time to gain the proper confidence.

In the end, it’s all about second-bests and lesser evils.

She shifts weight from one leg to the other.

“We can try to lower the difficulty of the Risks, and the complexity of the combinations. I don’t want to dance as Kasumi anymore, but I’ll manage the pressure better if I start from something known. I think.”

Coach Hiraguchi taps the pencil on the paper, creating a mist of minuscule dots. Her gaze lowers on the symbols and goes back to her.

“I’ll be blunt: it’s not a solution I’m a fan of. You need to move on if you truly want to find your style and express yourself through your moves.” She shakes her head with a sigh. “At the same time, I recognize we’re short on time. And knowing how you train; I don’t want to push this on you. In general, I appreciate that you want to decide for yourself what you think it’s best for you.” Her expression loosens up and her smile embraces her as her dad did the previous night. “You’re growing, Sumire.”

Her cheeks fire up.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“I’ll second your request since the circumstances ask for a no-ordinary approach.” She slams her palms on the desk as if to give her a determination boost. “Do your best to master these routines in a way that speaks of yourself.”

“Of course! I will start to focus on that first thing after the stretching!”

A little voice, tedious like a bug, can’t help asking if this is the right choice, or if things won’t backfire, or if she’s truly ready to take a National selection in three months. Sumire grits her teeth and swallows that down – Coach Hiraguchi doesn’t have to see her faltering so easily. She has to keep up with the mood, not make it heavier.

She gets up and bows.

“I’ll start my training for today, then.”

Coach Hiraguchi scribbles a note on the papers and nods.

“I’ll work on your routine composition while you warm up so we can see them together later on.” Her head shoots up like she suddenly remembered something. “Oh, and I’ll call Shujin Academy. I’ll let your supervisor know that you will take part in the selection and that you will need a special extension for exam week. All right?”

“Yes! Thank you so much, Coach.”

She adjusts the bag on her shoulder and leaps to the changing room.

Chapter Text

Sumire clenches the zipper of the club’s sweater and pushes it all the way up to her chin as if she’s not about to hand it to Hiraguchi in exactly 5 minutes and a half. The synthetic fabric makes the leotard underneath stick to her skin, thinly covered by a veil of sweat.

She ignores it and pushes the earbuds into her ears.

The audio of her hoop performance starts back for the millionth time and she closes her fingers around the glittering silver tape covering the plastic like it’s a blanket to strangle. The instrumental intro explodes in a sequence of aggressive lyrics that brings chaos. She focuses on the drums giving everything a rhythm like a lifeline – and a far too slippery one.

Keeping the music the same has been a terrible idea.

Stupid, naïve Sumire. Will she ever learn how to make one good decision?

The screech of a door opening seeps through the headphones, and the first gymnast of the rotation enters the locker room to change.

Sumire tears the pieces away from her ears, the music a metallic sound still blasting from the headphones. She presses the pause button on the old mp3, loops the cable around her fingers but loses grip from the trembling. She tosses the thing into her bag altogether and shoves it further on the bench to avoid leaving it in the way.

She adjusts the hoop on her shoulder and steps out of the room. Despite the summer heat, the tiles are chilly under her feet.

Coach Hiraguchi eyes her from chignon to slippers, and her lips turn from thin to smiley.

“Light blue definitely suits you best, you know.”

Sumire startles. She has a forced ‘thank you’ rolling on her tongue but what comes out of it is:

“I’m terrified.”

The woman keeps her eyes on her, two pitch-black irises that pin her on the spot.

“You trained hard.”

“Wha if I can’t execute the risks properly?”

“You recover and go on. Don’t overthink them. What is the basis for a risk?”

“A medium or large throw, two rotations, and a catch. Rotations can be performed during the throw and the catch.”

“Good. Simple as that. Think about them in terms of phases.”

Sumire’s lips quiver. Blood pulses against the skull of her head, where the tightly pulled-up hair is tugging her skin. She must not cry.

“The music’s all wrong. I was wrong. That’s too much for me. I can’t.”

Coach Hiraguchi slides her hands on her shoulders, and the world stops spinning like crazy, and it’s just two dark pupils and a blurred everything else.

“We’re not discussing the music now. In less than a minute your name will be called and you will be back on the floor and this is what’s really important, Sumire. Do you get me?”

She simply nods.

Slender fingers clench tighter and brush her through the sweater, and paired with severe eyes they keep her in one piece like gold in the cracks of a broken vase.

“You don’t need to obsess over how well you’ll do because you’re still adjusting. Taking measurements. You’ve already achieved the biggest step of being here today. It’s all learning from now on.”

A man rounds the corner and gestures her to come over.

Coach Hiraguchi lets her go but doesn’t drop her gaze. And the trembling doesn’t come back.

“I want you to give your best and don’t approach this competition like you’ve already lost.”

She nods. “I… I’ll try my best, Coach.”

She unzips the sweater and hands it to her. A final nod and she sets off behind the staff member who leads her into the main hall of Takasaki Arena.

The crowd cheering the previous gymnast echoes throughout the hall, bombastic. Overwhelming.

She draws a deep breath, stretches her shoulders, and steps just outside the corridor.

The loudspeakers call for her name.

“The next contestant to perform with the hoop: from Aoyama-Itchome, Tokyo, representing Shujin Highschool’s associated club, Sumire Yoshizawa!”

A silly part of her mind whispers ‘It’s showtime’ and that’s enough. She squares her shoulders, tilts her chin forward, and flashes out her best performance smile. Upright she walks to the floor – this one is a tad softer than the one she uses for training, and a lot smoother.

She stops in the center, places the hoop just in front of her, and takes position: left hand on her hip, right palm on the hoop, and right leg slightly bent and crossed behind her left.

The audio signal beeps, and the routine starts.

The first piano note resounds. She pushes forward the hoop to make it turn back on its own, and she’s ready to catch it with her ankle, throw it, and the hoop is in her hand again as soon as the instrumental intro ends.

Breathe.

The lyrics start and damn Sumire’s already split seconds late for the first risk. She clenches the hoop. A throw, two rotations, and a catch.

The hoop takes off, and she hurries through the spins and manages to catch the apparatus and raise in a relevé balance (she held it for less than one second, didn’t she?) The first row of lyrics ends, giving way to the bagpipe and her lungs are already struggling and the worst has yet to come—

Thank god the first stanza is more sanely paced, and she syncs her body to the singer’s voice, flowing from one dance step to the other. It’s a pity the calm lasts just the time for the sequence.

She grits her teeth, with the refrain building up like a tsunami. She passes the hoop down on her right ankle, bends into a backward walkover, and launches it in the air for the second risk.

The chorus overwhelms her like a wave in the middle of the sea, with two sets of lyrics overlapping – it’s chaotic, the disappearance of the drums under the weight of the chorus in the enormity of the stadium; it’s nothing like listening to it with her earbuds or in the calm of the training gym. It’s apnea for 30 seconds.

Breath. Focus. Hold on tight, Sumire.

The piano is back. Aggressive and angry and too quick for her labored heart and tired limbs, but there. She manages another throw, and her body and mind are one with the music again. The catch comes smoothly with one hand, and she flows into a split pivot while passing through the hoop, and transitions to the final risk of the routine.

The piano sounds its final refrain. All the instruments quiet down. Just a violin accompanies the last lyrics.

And her final move.

The hoop flies in the air. She dives on the floor, rolls, and arches her back until the point of her slippers linger against her shoulders, stretches her right arm, and there it is: like a miracle after the storm, her silver-taped hoop is back into her palm for the great finale on the final ‘La’.

Her lungs are exploding. She blocks the breaths from coming out, too rigged and ungracious.

A thunder of applause washes over her, the tides on the devastated beach.

She pushes her body back up and everything turns to cotton. She bows, straights back, raises a hand, waves to the public – had people always been this loud with her?

Coach Hiraguchi gestures her to come over to the kiss and cry: a pristine white couch sided by ficus plants and backed by a panel with the Japan Gymnastics Association logo printed on it.

The club’s black sweater flutters upon her shoulders, and a pair of hands surround her forearms and gently push her down on the pouf. Her own hands, somehow, are still clenching the hoop.

The loudspeakers crackle her name.

“…ire Yoshizawa, with a total score of 14.800.”

The hug around her tightens.

“Not bad at all for a start, Sumire,” Coach Hiraguchi muses. “With a first like this, you’re in the game.”

She nods. Scarlet characters over white background, her score flashes from the monitors hanging from the ceiling. 14.800. It’s points above all her latest simulations, back before asking for the hiatus. Still far from Kasumi’s heights, though.

“I… have a chance?”

Coach Hiraguchi pats her on the back, suggesting she return to the locker room and leave place for the next gymnast.

“But you’ll have to keep fighting.”

Sumire places the turquoise ball in the crook of her neck and stills into her starting pose. The usual signal beeps, the music starts playing, and her limbs start flowing.

The ball rolls down her left arm, bounces on the floor, and is back in her hand. The guitar is aggressive, yet its rhythm isn’t frantic or disconnected like the previous track, so she just syncs with it and lets the basses slowly guide her to the apex of the routine.

The violin kicks in, giving her a nice boost. Throwing the ball is easy, as long as she follows the swings of the violin stick – in the middle of the backscale she switches legs, and the ball lands in the crook formed by the back of her knee, and she is back up just the way she wanted to. Like water, she swirls into the step sequence, every part of the choreography engraved into her muscles after weeks and weeks of practice.

The ball slips.

She’s slapped awake from her trance and recovers it with a roll on the floor that hopefully appears like a calculated change of axis during the exercise. She stretches her smile wider despite the corner of her eyes prickling: she screwed that transition so many times during practice, of course she had to screw it in competition, too.

To think that Coach Hiraguchi often scolds her because she tends to rely on muscle memory so much, she isn’t able to focus on the flow of the routine and ends up making the same mistakes over and over again.

She raises on her tiptoes for a series of two pivots, her ball bouncing to the rhythm of the drumrolls that announce the final part of the routine. The violin swings at full power as she approaches the last risk, that voice now gnawing at her guts that something is missing, something’s not right.

She grabs the ball after the last throw with just too much force – 100% worth an Execution penalty – and can feel in her limbs that the final balance has its shape off. She lets the ball rolls from hand to hand throughout her shoulders, and stills for the finishing pose, one arm bent over her head and the other stretched by her side, hopefully graciously holding the ball.

Compared to the previous routine, she isn’t tired. And that’s a problem.

The second round of applause raises and comes to an end. Are they aware she messed up? The judges sure are. There’s no way they didn’t see that slip. Or her lacking routine.

She bites her lower lip and sits on the couch next to Coach Hiraguchi.

“I messed up.”

“Even golden medals can mess up and still win gold. You recovered. It was your overall execution that was lacking: there wasn’t a clear Character.” She shoots her a glance and a small smile. “Don’t be afraid of the spotlight, or you’ll end up doing the bare minimum.”

Sumire can only nod. Her ears are whistling.

The final score appears on the monitors: 13.700.

Her Coach chuckles.

“See? They didn’t count that as a loss in the end. You managed the trick.” She pats her shoulder. “C’mon. Go get changed. Your sworn enemies await you next.”

Sumire frowns. “Aren’t… you going to scold me? Since I repeated that one mistake I always do.”

“Sure I am,” she laughs, “but before a round of clubs? That’s not what you’d need.” She tightens the hold on her shoulder, and her gaze turns more intense. “Just try to keep your focus. And if you make a mistake, recover from it and go on, like you’ve just done.”

Sumire clenches her fingers around the handle of the grey and blue clubs. Kasumi’s specialty.

A knot forms in her throat, walking towards the competition floor. It will be tough.

It will be an absolute disaster.

‘Don’t approach this competition like you’ve already lost’ Coach Hiraguchi said. She pulls out a smile for the cameras, locks the clubs with one another, and lays them on her right shoulder. She places the back of her left hand under her chin and calls, calls for every ounce of boldness she could have ever had in her body.

The music starts with a gentle piano she easily gets in tune with.

The clubs slide down her arm and stop in her palm, and with a rotation she joins her hands and divides them, holding each one separately. She follows the sweetness of the lyrics, the clubs swirl into mills between her fingers, over her head, around her body, and she prepares to time the first big throw with the singer’s voice and spin and leap under it.

She catches the clubs.

The air vibrates with the crescendo. She breathes in.

The first drumroll skyrockets the peace. She dances to the rhythm of clapping hands and energetic drums,  the clubs crossing the air more often than not in small and medium throws, never still during pivots and balance. The tempo is ruthless, requiring her to just hold on tighter and tighter. She needs to be quicker in her movements, bolder, greater, all that graciousness of the start long forgotten.

Her limbs are one single lament. Her muscles feel stiff.

The instrumental part with the electric guitar solo is a deadline approaching sooner than expected – she’s not ready. Not yet, it’s too soon, it’s—

She cuts a portion out and throws herself in the next risk to run, run after the music.

Risk done.

Now the pivot, then the transition, then the fourth risk, come on Sumire, you can do it—

She throws.

The piano picks up again with a frenzied scale, and she dances to it, her hand stretched in the air.

One of her clubs barely brushes her index and falls on the floor.

Air gets knocked off of her, heart dropping to her feet – there’s no way she’s covering this one.

She scrambles to retrieve the fallen club, and that one piece of apparatus alone is the switch. On and off. She closes off thoughts and just does what she’d memorized, but with the singer’s voice is back, the routine is nothing but chaos. It’s aggressive, it’s something she should’ve never hoped to manage under any circumstances. It’s an ungraceful catch, an imprecise figure, a deviation in the trajectory, a throw smaller than originally planned. It’s a risk barely completed, a pivot on flat foot instead of in relevé, a jump that lands too on the left.

It’s a disaster.

The music ends, and, only a fraction of a second later, she stills. And it’s another penalty to be added to the list.

The round of applause is shorter. She walks towards the kiss and cry like it’s the gallows platform. Coach Hiraguchi presses her lips in a thin line and all but surrounds her shoulders with the club’s sweater.

The score on the screen comes in like a preannounced tragedy: a lousy 11.000. Nothing more.

It’s over.

Coach Hiraguchi clenches her hand around Sumire’s own, still holding the clubs.

“It’s not over yet,” she states. “The competition. You still have the ribbon.”

Sumire makes a face.

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes turn sharp like a knife. “Does it?”

She wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t run, she wouldn’t run, she wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t do that anymore, she promised to Senpai. She promised to herself.

“Yes,” she spits out. “Yes, it still matters. I’m getting changed.”

She strangles the handle of the clubs, gets up, and strides towards the locker room.

The beads on her light blue leotard shimmer under the gymnasium lights.

Sumire walks through the floor to take her place right in the center of it and loops the violet ribbon in loose spires around her feet. She splits her legs in the starting position for a slow 180° pivot, holding the foot with one hand and the ribbon’s handle with the other like a magic wand, and everything is coated by a sort of holiness.

The music starts, a slow tempo of percussions and piano notes, and so she turns her body, her left hand supporting the calf near her nose and her right maneuvering the ribbon in loops around her body.

With a small throw, she passes the handle in the other hand and shifts position, and dances to the rhythm of a melody made by basses and percussions and hands clapping.

A leap, a balance, and the music builds up, and the tension in her guts along with it.

The piano explodes and for how much the rhythm picks up, so does her mood: she’s weightless, she’s gracious, she’s sparkling in her shiny leotard under the spotlights. She throws the ribbon for the first risk, the trajectory perfectly linear, and for every element she performs under it, the audience is clapping to the sound of her music.

The piano is her friend, no matter how it’s running quicker and quicker, she’s ready to take what’s coming next. The music sparks joy and so do her movements. They’re as precise and controlled as she engraved them in her memory, the shapes held as they’re meant to and the ribbon always where she wants it.

She allows herself the indulgence of getting lost into the music and lets the energy course through her blood, risk after risk, balance after balance, leap after leap. The ribbon truly feels like an extension of her body in her dance – she knows where the tail is, how it will travel through the air, when the handle will land back in her palm.

The climax rides out, easing into the comforting duet of piano and percussions.

She stretches her hand out, and the magic wand, as if summoned, appears exactly when it’s meant to.

There’s absolute silence in the gymnasium. Until the spell breaks, and the public boast into cheers.

The chaos blasts her out of the trance of her own creation – she blinks awake, and the handle of the ribbon almost slips from her fingers. She loops the long fabric in tight circles and lifts it from the floor.

Coach Hiraguchi is smirking at the kiss and cry, like she knows something that Sumire doesn’t. She doesn’t say a word, just opens her arms and welcomes her by her side on the little pouf.

The silence between them is deafening, with every second that passes without the speaker announcing her score weighting like the enunciation of a life sentence.

The loudspeakers buzz.

“The united jury evaluated the exhibition of Sumire Yoshizawa at the ribbon with a total score of 15.500.”

What?

“Fifteen and a half?!”

Coach Hiraguchi swings her punch in the air. “I knew it!” She turns to her, brighter than Sumire ever remembers her being. “I would’ve bet my entire career that routine was worth at least a fifteen. You’ve done amazing, Sumire.”

“I…” The world is blurred before her. “I’ve never scored above fifteen before.” Which is still far from Kasumi’s top scores but let’s not focus on that now, Sumire.

Her Coach smiles warmly at her.

“You’ve done it now.”

Sumire jumps to her feet. 15.5 and 14.8 and 12.7 and 11—

Oh.

She eyes the giant timetable displaying the placements.

The first two positions are fixed by now, with a total score of 60 and 59,3, with the third place shifting between the other gymnasts. The current third-ranked has a total score of 58,2.

Excitement drains from her body as if someone sucked it out. Her lower lip trembles.

“It’s… still not enough, isn’t it?” Her voice cracks. “A total of 54.”

Coach Hiraguchi stands up and slips an arm around her, giving her a slim and temporary shield from the world.

“Sit down and take your time. I’m going to find some water.”

Sumire only nods. How dared she expect something different? In the end, she’s just a foolish no-good gymnast.

The qualified trio is shining from the podium – they smile for the cameras, raising their flower bouquets high into the air and posing with peace signs.

Sumire holds her sweater tighter around her upper body and sulks in the plastic chair from the corner of the athlete’s waiting area. It’s not like they didn’t deserve it. Scores speak louder than words, and she got excluded by far more than a few tenths. It’s not like they didn’t deserve it. It’s that Sumire wasn’t even ready to try to aim for that podium and still ended up sad and bitter in a corner, with the part of her who’s sore for the loss arguing with the part of her who’s envious of other people and their success.

Coach Hiraguchi comes to stand before her, cutting off the view with her fit figure and an arm stretched offering her a plastic bottle of water.

Sumire makes the effort to raise her own hand and accept it.

“Thanks, Coach,” she mutters.

“How about we go somewhere else and have a talk?” she nods towards the corridor leading out of the arena. “It should be some time before changing rooms get crowded again.”

And she stands there, a palm on her hip and the other still inciting her to get up, her dark eyes only on Sumire. She waits, like for once she doesn’t expect to drag her out of her brooding and genuinely wishes she would take the first step alone.

It’s not very likely of her.

Sumire smiles to herself, a small one, uncaps the bottle, and downs half of it in one go. It sets a fresh block of something into her stomach, which is better than the panic churning in her guts during the performance. It clears her head a bit, too.

She grabs the hand that is being offered to her and stands up.

“Okay. I’m coming.”

They quietly escape the post-competition crowd in the competing area, with all the other gymnasts taken up by the local and national press. Some girls get interviewed together, some others alone, here and there a lonely coach speaks with the journalists while their pupil is out there taking selfies and recording videos.

A woman with raven hair is jotting down on a notepad the words of the girl that placed seventh, right above Sumire. Her expression is concentrated while she nods at her responder, and her pen flies on the paper. She raises her head to ask the next question, and the corner of her eyes meets Sumire’s side vision.

“Look,” Coach Hiraguchi gestures her, “the corridor is still empty. We made it in time.”

They proceed along the way and turn left to enter the changing room. Sumire closes the door behind her and shuts off everything else with it. The silence is soothing, but charged – she can sense a heavy chat in the air.

Coach Hiraguchi sits on one of the benches, her legs crossed, and lays against the wall. She keeps looking at her like she expects Sumire will be the one to talk first. Which… it’s not very likely of her, either. It throws her off.

“Uhm… Coach? What did you want to tell me?”

She lightly shakes her head, as if she asked a question whose answer should be obvious. Her cheeks heat up.

“I didn’t say I wanted to tell you something. I said I wanted a talk. So, before I even begin to say anything, I want to hear your thoughts, Sumire. What do you think about today’s competition?”

She blinks. What? What her opinion about the competition could ever be? It was a disaster. Like everything she does.

She strangles the lower hem of her sweater and digs her nails into the soft fabric.

“I messed up.” As always. “I wasn’t ready to do this.” Like she will ever be. “Keeping the music I chose last year was a horrible decision.” And that’s classic Sumire.

Coach Hiraguchi purses her lips. “Anything else?”

She must be trying to control her reactions, for some reason. All of it starts to seem more and more like some sort of unspoken test and that, at least, is something Sumire recognizes and is familiar with.

“Without the qualification for the National team, I’m out of the international scene.” She sighs. “Again.”

“You’re out of the international scene,” Coach Hiraguchi specifies, “for now.”

“Coach?”

“You see, I promised something to myself the moment you told me you wanted to get back to agonistic competition, and that’s that I would stop treating you like a child.” She crosses her arms. “I still remember how you would hide behind Kasumi’s back every time I walked into the gym, the first months after you started training. But you’ve grown so much since then, Sumire, especially in the past year. You’re not Kasumi’s little sister who’s scared of her own shadow anymore, even if a part of you still has to come to that realization.”

The burning transfers from her cheeks to the whole of her body. She isn’t angry… probably. Yet Sumire can’t read her or predict where the discussion will go. She grits her teeth. It’s like that day, back in January, with Akira-senpai – something’s not being said, and she can’t wrap her head around it, and she hates how powerless that makes her. How is she supposed to react?

She remains silent.

Her Coach stretches a smile, and that warms the air a bit.

“You’ve grown, but you still struggle to connect the dots sometimes, especially when they’re about you. What I’m saying is this: you chose to start back with competitions. You chose to keep the music as they were. You chose to aim for the National Team and you chose to send that registration form. You chose to be here today, to perform, to do that final ribbon routine despite everything else, and to be damn good at it, too.”

“But I—”

She stops the stuttering with the palm of her hand.

“It’s all about choices, Sumire. Good ones, bad ones. It’s normal to miscalculate. What matters the most, right now, is that they were your choices. Not mine. Not Kasumi’s.”

There’s something similar to static electricity filling the room. The synthetic fabric of her leotard scratches against raised hair on her arms. Her choices. Like going back to Maruki’s Palace. Joining the Phantom Thieves. Asking for a break. Spilling her heart to Senpai.

“I still greatly missed the goal today, though,” she mutters.

“Have you learned something today, though?”

Sumire frowns. Coach Hiraguchi shakes her head.

“You don’t have to answer this now. But don’t let the bitterness of this one meeting influence your next three years. You wanted to aim for the 2020 Olympics, remember?”

“Yeah…”

“Good. I know it still burns, to be facing the consequences of your choices, but don’t be too quick about labeling today’s competition as a failure.” Her smile turns into a smirk. “You’ve still established your personal record at the ribbon.” She gets up and stops in front of her. “We’ll get back to training and change the music, to find some scores that suit you more. There was still too much of Kasumi in your routines today, but now you have the time to really focus on yourself and the gymnast you want to be.”

“I’ll… think about that. Thanks, Coach.”

Coach Hiraguchi nods and lowers the door’s handle.

“For your information, the next selection for Japan’s National Team will be held in April next year.”

She pushes the door open and exits the locker room. Sumire lets her body clash on the hardwood of the bench and lays her head back against the wall.

“My choices, huh?”

The long list of ‘Sumire’s No Good, Very Bad, Arguably Terrible Choices’ only grew today, yet getting dressed and going back home seems far more appealing than dwelling on her mistakes for a second more. And that’s a new one, too.

So, she peels the pins off her hair and starts undoing the chignon.

The sun of July blinds her and scorches the skin under the dark sweater. Takasaki Arena is an island among rails, enclosed between two lines – everywhere is either concrete, steel, or wood chips, and the heat exudes from the ground, too, as well as from above.

She unlocks the phone and sends a message to her dad with her position.

The messaging app beeps back: ‘I’m talking with your Coach while the crowd exits the arena. Be there asap! Well done for today <3”

She huffs and searches for a shelter under the Arena’s wide rooftop casting shadows underneath. A long line of people is walking through the public’s exit; a much smaller group comes out of the athlete’s side.

“Sumire Yoshizawa?”

The inky-haired journalist from before smiles at her with confidence and the gleaming expression of someone who’s found exactly what they were looking for.

She’s wearing a candid blouse whose lapel is askew from the stuffy bag held on her right shoulder. A scrunchie seals her hair in a low and short ponytail, but more than a few strands have fallen out of it, lining her round cheeks.

“You’re Yoshizawa, correct?” she repeats. “My name is Saki Morimoto; I write for a local newspaper. I was hoping to exchange a few words with you today if you have some time.”

The woman bows and offers her a business card. Sumire takes it between her fingers: it’s a simple white paper, with her name and her contact info neatly printed on it. She furrows her eyebrows, and the glasses slip down the sweaty skin of her nose. Her? An interview?

“Me?” she points to herself.

“But of course! I’m interviewing all the gymnasts that took part in the selection.” She bends to extract a worn-out notepad from the bag and slips a pen outside the metallic loop holding the pages together. “You’re the only one I didn’t manage to have a chat with. I feel very lucky to have found you just in time! Would you mind if I ask you some questions?”

Her face boils, and not from the heat. How is she even supposed to handle a situation like this? It’s always been Kasumi, the one under the spotlight, the one people wanted to talk to. She’s not ready – what is she even supposed to say?

Miss Morimoto is beaming, her eyes drawn to her and her pen hovering over the pad. She mustn’t be older than her Coach, barely above her thirties. It wouldn’t be very polite to turn her down now, would it?

“O-of course,” she sputters. “Please, go on.”

“Great! Thank you for your time.” She jots down some more and looks back at her. “You see, I’m a great fan of rhythmic gymnastics – I’ve been fond of the sport since I was a kid, and then decided to pursue sports journalism. Despite the many athletes I recognized today, I saw a lot of new faces, too. You’re one of those. Would you mind telling me a bit of your story? Nothing too deep and personal, of course! Even a brief sum-up of what led you here today is perfectly fine.”

Sumire shifts her weight between her legs. It’s an incredibly tough first question, ironically. The thought of talking about Kasumi tangles a knot at the pit of her stomach – and surely, Miss Morimoto must already know about her sister. Kasumi was quite famous as a junior, after all. So, she goes with something vague but true.

“I’ve practiced the sport since I was little. My… family introduced me to it. It’s to make them proud that I’ve decided to aim for the National Team and the international senior scene.”

Miss Morimoto vigorously nods. Her pen runs even more vigorously fast.

“Yes, of course – it’s the story of many gymnasts, after all! And tell me, what is your goal for the future?”

“After today, and after speaking with my Coach, I’ve decided to focus on training. I need to improve even more if I want to make it to the international competitions. And then…”

It feels almost too much to say it, like she’s aiming too high, for a goal that’s unachievable for her. It’s… scary, to spell it out loud for someone who isn’t herself, or her Coach, or her parents. Even more so after she actively failed to take the first necessary step to accomplish it.

She swallows every bit of it down and forces the words out.

“And then, I wish to be an Olympic champion. The medal is my goal. I swore that to my… family. We made a promise, years ago.”

“Uh-uh,” she nods. “The next Olympics will be held in Tokyo, too. Does that make you feel more comfortable?”

A high-pitched laugh escapes her lips. “If anything, it makes the pressure a lot worse, to be honest.”

“I see. Well, today was your first big competition as a senior, wasn’t it? How did it seem to you?”

Anger burns in her gut and runs directly under the skin of her hands. Isn’t the answer obvious?

“It… certainly was a huge jump for me, personally. But I’m determined to train even more to improve.”

“Mh-mh!” she keeps writing and writing. “It’s always good to hear such determination! One last question for you, and then you’re free to go!” She scribbles down some more. Pauses. Traces a line. Scribbles again. “You seem to have a very good relationship with your family – from what you said, at least. They seem very supportive of you. Was any of them here today to watch you?”

“Yes,” she nods. “My dad. My mom stayed at home with my grandma, since she’s too old for the trip but wanted to see my first senior competition regardless!”

“That’s very sweet of her,” she comments. Her writing stops. “All right! We’re finished. I hope I haven’t bothered you, and thank you again for your time.” She bows. “If you’d like to read the interview, you can find it on the online columns of Takasaki Sports News.”

Sumire bows in return. “Thank you, too—”

“Hey, Sumire!”

Her dad is waving a hand at her, Coach Hiraguchi by his side.

She bows her head again. “I’m sorry, it seems I have to go.”

Miss Morimoto nods, slowly, but her look shifts from her to the duo behind her. Her eyes grow wide.

“Excuse me if I’m asking, but… is that Shinichi Yoshizawa, the director of Good Morning Japan? Is he your father?”

Blood flows to her cheeks. Such enthusiasm, as if her dad is some kind of celebrity… but maybe it makes sense, for a journalist.

“Yes—”

“I see,” she mutters. The pen is back in her fingers, and she adds a little more to her pages of notes.

Something crawls under Sumire’s skin. She just wishes to end this conversation as soon as possible, but stomping off would be very unpolite of her. She forces a smile.

“Is something the matter?”

Miss Morimoto raises her gaze, shifts it between her and her dad, and back on her.

“Wait for a second…”

She figured it out.

Sumire takes a step back out of pure instinct, which terrifies her even more. She has to control her reactions in public, especially in front of a journalist who can potentially write anything about her – it’s what journalists do, she saw it happening many and many times. She can’t allow her a single question about Kasumi, because as soon as she asks, Sumire won’t be able to keep up the façade, like the terrible, terrible liar that she is.

Miss Morimoto shakes her head, closes her notepad, and shoves it back in her satchel.

“No, it doesn’t matter now,” she mutters, more to herself than to her. “Forget what I was about to say. You deserve some time with your family after today. Have a safe trip back home, and I hope to see you again in future competitions!”

She bows one final time and strolls away, fishing her telephone and dialing a number.

Her dad steps beside her.

“Who was she?”

Sumire’s still stunned. “A journalist. She asked me some questions.”

“Oh!” He rounds her shoulders with his arm. “Was that your first interview, then? That’s great, Sumi!”

“Yeah…” she mumbles, “I guess it was.”

Chapter Text

Sumire presses her forehead against the pages of her math notes. A weight in her chest makes every breath an ache, a sore spot from throat to lungs; it’s the same feeling she gets after running a dozen laps around the training hall of the gymnasium except this one worsens the more she thinks about the exams.

After that disaster of a meeting, she’s definitely not in the mood for more numbers. She hasn’t aced the competition, she doubts she will ace her tests, either, even with a week of extra time.

She tries to spin the pencil between her fingers the way she saw Akira-senpai doing so many times. It falls flat on the paper.

Everything has to be so painfully hard, isn’t it?

Going to school, scoring well with the exams, scoring even better on the floor, training almost every day, never losing concentration… it’s insane. How hasn’t she realized any of this before? The climb to the Olympics will be a hell of an experience, and she’s not ready yet. Never will, probably.

She shoots a glance at her smartphone, which returns her own reflection, blurred in darkness.

Kasumi made everything look so easy. She was such a natural. Now that Sumire’s the one who’s left, everything is difficult and uncertain, and their dream…

Tears prick in the corner of her eyes and slide down her cheeks. The weight of it all downs on her shoulders, as if a boulder materialized in the place of something vague and undefined.

If things don’t change, if she doesn’t change, their dream will be lost. Their promise will be broken.

“Sorry,” she hiccups. “I’m sorry I’m not as good as you. Or as strong as you.” She brushes her eyes and runny nose with the back of her hands. “I’m still clumsy and not skilled enough and also a mess.”

She hugs herself tight, with nails digging in the skin of her forearms. Her teeth clench and the pressure on her chest escalates to keep everything quiet. Not a single sound is allowed to exit and worry someone other than herself.

She slowly pushes the air out.

Breathes in. And out.

Goosebumps travel along her body and a rush of endorphins soothe her like a hug, and with them, once again, come Hiraguchi’s words, like the refrain of a song: ‘don’t approach this competition like you’ve already lost.’

She grabs a tissue and blows her nose. It’s 2017. The Olympics will be in another three years. And she’ll prove she can win that medal, not with Kasumi’s boldness, but with Sumire’s qualities.

She figured out what gymnast she wants to be – now that vision needs to become reality.

This is the next step to take.

There is no way she will ever allow that promise they made under the starry sky of the Planetarium, so many years ago, to be for naught. There’s no way she will ever allow something as wonderful as rhythmic gymnastics to drag her down instead of helping her be the best version of herself, who inspires others with her routines. There’s no way she will go to Coach Hiraguchi and retreat what she said.

And those are her choices.

She pushes the chair back and goes to the bathroom. She leaves the light off, not to disturb her parents, and makes do with the moon rays filtering through the curtains. She washes her face with cold water and barely wipes it dry with the towel.

She tiptoes back to her room and slowly closes the door behind her. Her smartphone angrily vibrates on the wooden desk, and she hastily picks it up to shut the noises and flops on the bed. She opens the messaging app: it’s from Futaba, in the group chat. She attached a screen of her interview with Miss Morimoto from that afternoon.

Sakura Futaba: sumi!!
Sakura Futaba: we had no idea you competed for NATIONAL selections today holy moly
Sakura Futaba: see if I have to discover it from some local sports magazine’s website
Sakura Futaba: just say a word and next time you’ll have all the team cheering for you in all phantom thieves mighty ok??

Sakamoto Ryuji: dude fr
Sakamoto Ryuji: im hella cheering 4 u

Okumura Haru: I’d also love to see you competing one day! I’ve never seen gymnastics live :)

And the messages keep arriving one after the other, washing her tension away like warm water on a scraped knee. She’d never thought she would have everyone’s support so strongly.

Sumire: Thank you guys, I don’t know what to say…
Sumire: I kept quiet because today was the last day of exam week so I didn’t want to overload anyone, really!
Sumire: I’ll make sure to let you know about the most important competitions next time! o(≧▽≦)o

The tips of her ears turn hot in sending the last message. She hopes she hasn’t offended anyone… exams are demanding, and she didn’t want to make the others feel pressured into distracting themselves from their duties to mind her business. They’re barely friends, after all…

No.

She softly slaps her cheeks to shoo those ugly thoughts away. Everyone has always been kind to her, always taught her the basics of thievery, always included her in the group with nothing but enthusiasm. If anything, she’s the one who could’ve made some more effort in returning the favor. Everyone understood her struggling and left her space… now it’s her turn to take a step forward.

She wets her lips and types the messages with trembling fingers.

Sumire: Thanks again to everyone for the excitement. I truly appreciate it!
Sumire: My exams start on Wednesday since Shujin allowed me for an extra week, given the circumstances
Sumire: But after that, I’m available for hanging out! I can definitely find a way to work it out with my practice schedule :)

She sends the last one, and a banner notification pops up on the upper part of the app. A private message… from Senpai?!

The smartphone slips from her fingers and bounces on the mattress. Her face is melting.

Okay, okay. No panic, Sumire…

She taps their chat, unadjourned since those few messages they exchanged back in April. She forces her eyes to follow the kanjis, to avoid skimming through and jumping to the end.

Kurusu Akira: hi Sumire
Kurusu Akira: I still have my school notes from last year if they could help you?
Kurusu Akira: some of them belong to Makoto actually, but the offer still stands
Kurusu Akira: she used to highlight to us the topics that were most likely to be asked in tests, and she’s never been wrong so far

Okay, all clear, no big deal, just school stuff. She is absolutely capable of responding to that.

Sumire: Thank you Senpai!! I’d appreciate it a lot if you don’t mind

Kurusu Akira: sure, np for me
Kurusu Akira: here
Kurusu Akira: [pictures attached]

Sumire: Oh, they’re all neat and organized!

Kurusu Akira: all Makoto’s doing. Mine were… not this tidy

Sumire can’t help but giggle. It sounds like they all spent a lot of time group studying. Meanwhile, she wasn’t even acting like herself… it feels surreal, to think about that period in perspective.

Her phone vibrates again.

Kurusu Akira: oh and one more thing
Kurusu Akira: I’ll be in Tokyo for a month for summer break, starting from the 24
Kurusu Akira: I kinda miss strolling through Kichijoji, so
Kurusu Akira: would you mind going to Miel-et-crêpes?

What.

“What?!”

Her eyes go back and forth between the last messages. What has just happened? How is that possible? There’s no way Senpai is asking her out. Right? It’s probably just out of nostalgia…

She swallows down the embarrassment and drags her thumbs on the touch screen. If she thinks about it in terms of not being rude, writing the response comes easier.

Sumire: Not at all! I’ll gladly come with you
Sumire: Would the 30^th be alright? I don’t have practice that day

Kurusu Akira: cool
Kurusu Akira: then I’ll see you in two weeks

Sumire lets go of her phone. She lands back on the mattress. And covers her face with both palms.

“What the fuck.”

Sumire palms the back of her sweaty neck where hair sticks to the skin and uses the back of her hand to raise the mass and allow for the barest gust of wind to pass. Tying them is not an option anymore. Maybe she should cut it? Wonder if Takamaki-senpai has some advice to give her…

Akira-senpai comes out of the alley in front of her, dodging passersby like a flowing river would do with rocks. He’s wearing a black polo shirt and the usual pair of jeans… and he’s without glasses.

Her face flares up, and not for the heat. His gaze is indeed much more intense without plastic frames covering it. She waves a hand in his direction, all the greetings in her throat swallowed by the beating of her own heart.

“Hey there,” he waves back. “How you’re doing?”

“I’m quite alright! I’m working hard towards building new routines for the next season. How about you?”

He shrugs and twists a strand of fringe between his fingers. It’s almost out of place now, without the glasses.

“Same as always. There’s nothing special about where I live, so… I’m glad I’m back in Tokyo for now.”

She simply nods. There’d be a thousand questions she’d like to ask about his hometown, actually – what kind of place it is, if he can see the sea or the mountains from his windows, what clubs had he joined at school if any. But he’s always kept vague on the topic. And Sumire can get clues, so she keeps quiet, too.

She clenches the straps of her purse tighter.

“Shall we go, then?”

“Sure,” he nods back and adjusts his own bag. It looks emptier than usual.

“I wouldn’t want to be nosy, but… how about Morgana-senpai?”

He smiles a little, so it mustn’t be an unpleasant question, at least.

“Oh, he’s with Haru. She’s taken an interest in animal cafés and cat cafés specifically. So she asked Mona if he’d help her figure out a few things for her project” He chuckles. “Surprisingly, he wasn’t offended by it in the slightest.”

“I’ll say hi to him some other time, then.”

He starts walking. The sun hits his hair and makes it a glowy mass of ink. Her heart skips a beat.

“Sure! Come by Leblanc whenever you’d like. I’ll have a cup of coffee ready for the serve.”

Two beats missing now. No good, no good.

“Thank you very much!” A squeak, more than a proper sentence. He’s surely caught on her embarrassment, which makes everything worse. Ugh! It’s about time she gets over it.

They arrive in front of Miel-et-crêpes, and Akira holds the door open for her, and no, there is no way she will ever be able to get over it.

“Thank you,” she says, more to the ground than to him.

A waitress in a dark honey apron comes to welcome them.

“I’m afraid all the tables for two are currently taken.” She bows. “Would it be fine with you if I sit you in one of the round tables for three? They’re outside, on the porch.”

They exchange a look.

“That’s fine by us, thank you.”

It gives a nice shadow, and the fans hanging from the ceiling make the heat much more bearable. They sit at the table and the quiet chattering of other customers envelopes them like a cozy bubble.

Sumire holds the menu chart and skims over the coffee section. There is no way any of them will hold a candle to Leblanc’s house blend. Maybe some cold tea will do. Or a fruit juice – the berries and citrus one seems delicious. That will do.

“Senpai, what will you…?”

Akira’s head is turned to his left, his profile blurred by the shadows cast by the inner part of the porch’s roof. Sumire lightly squints to follow the direction of his gaze: not the shops outside, nor the streets or some other customer of the shop. But the chair remained unoccupied at their table.

Oh. It’s already been a year.

Her lips part, but only breaths come out of them. Should she ask? She wouldn’t want to bring the mood down, to be nosy, or veer into inappropriate territory. After all… his hometown, his family, they’re not the only things Akira never speaks about. Yet his eyes are lost, maybe in the memory of that first afternoon the three of them spent at Miel-et-crêpes. Or maybe, in some other memories that she cannot know about.

She needs to lift the mood. Do something. Anything.

She clears her voice. “Senpai?”

A quite literal thought bubble pops, and Akira blinks back at her.

“Sorry… I lost it for a moment. Have you already chosen something?”

“I was about to ask you the same.” She flips the chart and points to the juice. “Here, I’ll take this.”

“No coffee this time?”

A bit of blood rushes to her face at the thought that he remembers.

“It’ll never compare to yours,” she pouts.

Akira huffs a quiet chuckle and thinly smirks.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He eyes the menu. “Think I’ll go with the same cold tea as last time.”

He gestures the waitress to come to pick up their orders. The melancholy seems gone, but the air is still off. It’s like the altered trajectory of an apparatus during a large throw: sometimes, you don’t need to see it to know it’s not going where it’s intended to go.

Sumire clenches her fists. She needs to approach this, directly. He did so much to deal with her troubles, it’s only fair she does something for him in return. And besides, if she interpreted countless Metaverse missions and Phantom Thieves group dynamics correctly, it’s not like Akira can openly talk about Akechi with anyone.

The waitress is back with their orders. They raise their glasses and make them clink.

Akira smiles warmly at her, and only warmer her gut becomes.

“Can I ask you something more about gymnastics or you’d rather not think about it on your day off?”

She closes her fingers around the tall glass. The ice makes her shiver and her fingertips slide against the condensation, smearing it around. She takes a breath.

“In all honesty, there’s something I wanted to ask you, first.” She picks the straw and stirs the beverage. “It’s somewhat of a personal one, so don’t feel obliged to answer. After that, we can talk about everything you want. Deal?”

He studies her, and Sumire would lie if she said his gaze didn’t make her skin ignite like a kindle to a dead bush. His metal eyes cut sharper, and he nods like he’s decided he’ll take the risk of a personal question just out of curiosity.

“Deal. Shoot.”

And shooting she does.

“Have you perhaps heard something from Akechi-san during these months?”

His eyes grow wider and his shoulders flinch the tiniest bit. Her heart swells but she goes on.

“When we escaped from Maruki’s palace after the battle, on February 3^rd, you weren’t with us… but he wasn’t, either. And after that, he kind of disappeared from everywhere: the news, the talk shows, the internet. It’s like everyone forgot about him. I tried asking my dad, but he said the host of that program he always appeared on got fired shortly after the Shido case breakout, so he couldn’t reach anyone else to question.”

Akira lowers his gaze and brushes the back of his head.

“You did go straight to the point, huh.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sound indelicate or disrespectful. I just thought you’d be the best person to ask – I don’t know why, but things were very tense between him and the others, and besides, the two of you were pretty close, so…”

Maybe she overstepped. Maybe she ruined everything. Maybe this was a whole other brand of Sumire’s bad decisions—

“You didn’t,” he shakes his head. “Overstep, I mean. It’s… kinda reassuring to see another person worried about him.”

Another person worried…?

She frowns. “Does that mean…?”

“Yeah. I… haven’t heard from him or about him, either.”

He says that in a whisper, and something about it makes everything shatter. Anger burns inside her veins and scratches against her throat with the urge to scream. Akechi was a strange grey zone between an acquaintance and a friend – they never talked much, or went out together outside that one time when she was still convinced she was Kasumi. He sometimes gave her advice on what to do when fighting shadows in that abrasive way of his, and she appreciated that. Goro Akechi was just Goro Akechi to her, but he clearly was much more to Akira. And how is it possible that everyone overlooked something so important for someone important to them?

“I’m sorry,” it’s all she can manage.

He smiles bitterly. “Don’t be. You don’t even know the whole story – I mean, you know even less than the others.”

The next question rolls on her tongue like a rock on thin ice. But it’s worth the risk of falling into freezing water and getting a thermic shock.

“Would you mind telling me?”

He takes a long sip of his long-forgotten tea. She mirrors him with her drink – it’s sweet at first sip, but with a sour aftertaste that makes her tongue gluey. Her fingers itch with the urge to cover his hands in the same way he did with hers, all those months before. She keeps them sealed to the glass.

He nods, more to himself than to her, probably.

“I wouldn’t. But it’s a long one, and it’s pretty fucked up.”

Learning everything that went on behind the stages while she was so preoccupied with her flawed routines feels like unlocking a sixth sense – like she’s lived up until now with a huge portion of reality still missing, and the puzzle is now slowly completing itself and everything makes sense again. Like a journalist exposing a coup or a scientist explaining the inner workings of an infection spreading, Akira-senpai unravels the truths and horrors behind the death of Kunikazu Okumura, his arrest after the Casino, the fake suicide, and Shido’s Palace.

She grimaces. It’s clear now why everyone had a problem with Akechi, why no one was preoccupied after his disappearance. And she was left out of everything; maybe for the best, if they had to lose someone as strong and capable as Akechi to proceed through the Palace. Except…

“But Senpai, wasn’t he with you since the start of the new year?”

“Since Christmas Eve, actually.” He heaves a long sigh and it’s the most tired Sumire has ever seen him being. “He turned himself in, in my stead. He willingly went with the police to testify against Shido.”

“That’s very noble of him.”

Akira bursts into laughter.

“Noble is the last word I’d describe Goro with but. Yeah. Guess it was.” He shakes his head. “Your question still stands, though. Maybe you’re wondering why I had to be sent in juvie for a month and a half after Maruki’s defeat since he offered to take my place.”

She stops sipping her juice. “That, too.”

“Cool, because this is how we get to the part nobody knows about. Except for Morgana. And Futaba, who probably overheard the whole conversation from her computer and never said a word to me because… well. I’d get why she wouldn’t.”

The atmosphere is charged with Akira’s bitterness, a flow of emotions she’s not used to sense coming from him. There’s something raw lurking under their low-toned conversation, something that is irking Akira, who possesses the best poker face in the world, more than it is irking her – which is exceptional, to say the least.

Except she felt that same energy, once. During the first moments of fighting Dr. Maruki. Akechi even scolded him for that. It must be it.

“The evening of the calling card…” she whispers. “You two were different from the usual the next day. What happened?”

Akira stretches a sore smile. “You know how everyone got their wish actualized, even if it was something they weren’t aware of?”

She nods. Not that she understands where this is going, but she wants to show her support.

“Well,” he proceeds, determinedly not looking at her. “Apparently, I never got over Goro’s… over what happened in Shido’s Palace. And apparently, Maruki thought there was a way to fix that.” His gaze hardens, razor-sharp. “He confirmed it himself when I gave him the calling card – it was his last move.”

She covers her mouth with both hands, a shiver running down her spine. What a horrible thing to do.

“And the worst thing is… I almost faltered,” Akira nearly spits. “Goro’s the one who convinced me to refuse the deal.”

Sumire wishes all the pleasantries and worries a long trip to hell and clenches her hands around Senpai’s ones, like he did with hers, all those months before. Friends comfort each other all the time, right? Especially friends that magically stitched your wounds in the manifestation of the human subconscious. She’s entitled to a little contact.

“I think you did an amazing job, as a person and as our Leader.” Her face burns but she tightens her hold because she can damn well go all the way down with this. “And I think I can understand the inner chaos born from losing someone you had very conflicted and complex feelings towards. Someone who… sacrificed their life to let you go on.” She chews the inner part of her cheek, gives one final squeeze to his knuckles, and retreats her own hands back. “Thank you for sharing the whole story with me. I deeply appreciate it.”

He smiles.

“Thank you for hearing me. Now you know why no one in the group is a fan of Akechi. It wouldn’t be simple, to bring all this out with the others.” He shakes his head. “They all gave up something important to fight for what they thought was right. I couldn’t be the sole exception…”

The air is charged, again.

She leans forward.

“Yet?”

He scratches the back of his neck.

“Yet it was a horrible decision to make, and I almost didn’t make it.” His gaze shoots back up. “But… I’m pretty sure I saw him again, once. The day I left Tokyo to go back home.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed,” he chuckles. “I was on the train, and he was just a passerby on the bench – he was escorted by some men in suits and immediately got lost in the crowd but I do think it was him.” His fingers run to twitch a strand of his fringe. “I’ll look better into this once I’ll transfer for university, but it’s not like I can ask anyone’s help.”

“I hope you two can find each other back, one day.”

She lets that slip out unfiltered, but it’s an honest wish. Akira flinches, and it makes her giggle.

“Senpai, we all resort to stupid and wrong solutions when we’re desperate.” And she wished to live as her dead sister instead of wishing her back, so she knows a thing or two about heartbroken stupidity. “I’d be lying if I said I’m not uncomfortable with the whole story, now that I know it. But I think he proved he can be better than the mistakes he’s made.” She shrugs. “Also, I guess not being directly involved in the events and hearing everything from you could be weighing a little on my judgment on the matter.”

She leans back on the chair and sips the last bit of her juice.

“And besides… I’m a little curious about seeing him again, too.”

Akira stretches a little smile to himself at that, as if she gave him the best news of his life.

“Unexpected but not unwelcomed.” His index lingers near the bridge of his nose, the ghost of a habit. He moves the hand to scrap behind his nape. “Enough of me know. What about you?”

Blood flushes to the tip of her ears. She has offered to speak, yet every sentence gets blocked somewhere between her lungs and her tongue. She plays with the plastic straw in her glass, stirring the air.

“I don’t even know where to start. Many things happened in just a little over a month, and I’m still adjusting.” She slips her glasses up on the sweaty skin of her nose. “I could tell you what I’m training on? Like, right now.”

He nods. “Sure.”

She squeezes the straw between her thumb and index and fights the urge to chew on it. It would be very impolite.

“Coach Hiraguchi is making me revise all the basics. We agreed on taking this year in between the National selections to focus on my training and finding my style.” She loops a strand of hair around her index. “It feels like ages since the last time I trained like that – it’s almost like I don’t even remember how to move as myself without sprinkling a little bit of Kasumi in it.” She clenches her fingers around the glass. “I would’ve never guessed that… messing with my cognition would still be lingering like this.” A small but tight knot forms in her throat. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m so used to unconsciously imitating Kasumi, that not doing so is as if going against my nature or something like that…”

Both hands shoot up to cover her mouth, her cheeks now scorching hot.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to ramble like that. You asked a completely different question.”

He shrugs. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind.”

She has a deja-vu of all their talks, back in that first month of the year, when she used to vent and dwell on her problems and he would do nothing but listen and give her advice. It felt a little childish. She doesn’t want to be seen or considered or treated like a child – not by Hiraguchi, and certainly not by Akira.

She squares her shoulders and properly sits on the chair.

“Thank you. But I digressed. As I was saying, I’m almost starting back from scratch. Coach says that I, uhm, possess a natural grace that should come out more from my performances. It’s the reason why we decided to change the music of all the routines.”

Akira parts his lips to talk. Stops. Squints his eyes as if elaborating on something.

“I was about to ask if music is that important, but of course it is. It’s… kinda the point, I guess.”

“Yes. You cannot simply use four tracks and that’s it. Your routine, your movements, even the way you handle the apparatus must match the score that is playing, and all together they must convey a theme or a story.” She chuckles. “There’s even a section of the Code of Points about this. If the exercise doesn’t match the music, or if a clear personality or mood isn’t shown, you get penalized by the judges.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s part of the Execution score.”

Akira frowns. “You mean there are other scorers?”

She laughs, and his brows furrow deeper, and it tastes like a small victory, for once, to see him completely at loss about something she’s knowledgeable about, even if she’s still far from being a skilled gymnast.

“Yes, there are two that add up to form the final one: the Execution score, which derives from the artistic components of the routine, and the Difficulty score, which, to put it very simply, is the sum of all the gymnastic elements – but D score can be quite difficult to grasp, so leave that aside for now.”

She intertwines her fingers and plays with each one.

“The Execution has always been my specialty, at least according to Coach Hiraguchi and, well, all my past meetings. But since I started acting like Kasumi, I’ve been lacking in that field, too. And I’m still recovering from it now.”

“So,” he pinches his chin with his fingers, and Sumire swallows down a giggle. He’s looking a bit like Akechi. “If the music can determine the way you move on the floor, it means the ‘wrong’ track will affect you negatively.”

She nods. “It impacts everything, from your rhythm and speed to something as little as the flavor you give to your movements. This is why we made a drastic change.”

“Drastic, huh…”

She crosses and uncrosses her legs under the table, a sigh trapped in her chest. Coach Hiraguchi had been a saint for putting up with how picky she’s been with the options. She knew that that change was for the best, but a part of her, bigger than it ought to be, was anxious about leaving the known path to veer into unknown territory. Especially since the kind of Character she wants to build is still unclear. It’s a thing to decide she wants to inspire others; it’s much more of a quest to find how.

She slowly lets the air out.

“Coach is still narrowing down the final ones, but we have a couple of options for each apparatus. She analyzed my performance in the Nationals and tried to figure out what I was lacking and where the music wasn’t helping. Which, to be honest, is pretty much everywhere. Most of the time, it felt more like I was tagging along with the scores than dancing with it – I still don’t know how I scored 8^th. Some things were simply horrible. Well, I do suppose it’s different, seeing it all in slow motion countless times versus having to judge it live – anyway!” She takes her time to breathe and stop the rambling again. “We’re working on that.”

The way Akira’s eyes study her, the way the rainy gray of his irises focuses solely on her and fills the air with static electricity that makes the hair on her arms stand even though it’s late July; that is the tell: the next question will be a loaded one.

“Was the music too much ‘Kasumi’?”

She slowly nods. “They were her designated tracks, actually. I simply picked them up after my cognition got manipulated.” She draws aimless patterns on the table with the pads of her index. “For the Nationals, I chose to keep them as they were because I was short on time and performing those routines seemed better than having to start from zero.” She stops the imaginary doodling and lets her hand slip off the table. “But I think it would’ve ended badly both ways – the routines aren’t the problem, after all.”

“You’re training hard,” he says, in the same tone that Hiraguchi uses when she thinks Sumire’s about to spiral too much. She can’t help but wonder if ‘training’ is enough since ‘training’ has never been her lack. But she supposes it’s a start.

“I am,” she nods. “And I’m doing that in a new way. Sort of. Working on the basics again to focus on grace, more than boldness… it does make me feel lighter when I dance. Even if I still don’t know what direction everything will take.”

There’s churning in her guts, a mass at the pit of her stomach that she could either release or swallow down. Akira is looking at her like they have all the time in the world and are not in the middle of a public café with both their glasses empty. She wouldn’t want to make things weird again when the two of them seem to have found some strange balance.

She grits her teeth. Maybe she can take this risk. She only has to throw.

“You know, Kasumi always performed like she didn’t care about E score – and to a certain extent, she didn’t. She used to concentrate all of her boldness in Body and Apparatus Difficulties, so she always got extra points for acing complex series. She would’ve thrived with the new Code of Points.” She shakes her head. “But I could never do that. And I’m already feeling how important it is that I focus on my style and the kind of gymnast I want to be, even if I have to unlearn and start back.”

Sumire forces her eyes to stay firm on Akira’s. She is melting, and at least this can be excused with late July’s heat. But she needs to set aside the part of herself who still tremble when looking forward to the future and show him that she’s growing.

“I have barely started the journey, but it’s good to be walking on my own two legs. Senpai… thank you for listening to me.”

He smiles, wide, making her heart swell. “Anytime.”

Thanks to the Heavens, a waitress with dark hair braided on her shoulder and a dark honey apron approaches their table before the air becomes even more charged or weird.

“Do you wish to order something else?”

Akira shrugs. He doesn’t seem to be bothered or annoyed, but surely, he has other things to do today besides seeing her – she doesn’t want to intrude in his plans.

 “No, thank you. We’ll head to the checkout.”

“Sure! Thank you for coming here today!”

The girl picks up their empty glasses and used tissues, lays them on a wooden tray, and disappears back into the main room of Miel-et-crêpes.

They stand up, gather their bags, and walk towards the sliding doors closing the porch off from the rest of the store. Sumire turns and shoots a final glance to the spot they left. Akira’s forearm brushes against her shoulder, so he must be doing the same.

Just a round table and three vacant chairs.

It’s silly and very entitled of her, but deep in her heart, she guesses Akechi – the Akechi that harshly gave her advice in the Metaverse and pushed her to be better – would be at least a little bit proud of her.

Chapter Text

“On my three!” Futaba exclaims, raising her glass and standing on her tiptoes. The frizzy soda waves in it, a millimeter too close to spilling.

Everyone in Leblanc lifts their glasses and cups as well, sparkling under the lights that Mr. Sakura turned all the way up for the first time since Sumire first entered the café. The room is beaming just as much as its occupants.

She hooks her fingers around the handle of her cup of coffee and brings it up.

Futaba starts counting. “One. Two. Three!”

A unanimous ‘congratulation!’ roars throughout the shop. Okumura unlocks her phone and gestures Takamaki, Sakamoto, and Kitagawa to scoot closer against the counter, with Futaba’s laptop video-calling Senpai just right next to them. Everyone holds the tubular case with their diploma like a precious trophy – Kitagawa alternates between poses to find the perfect one and the duo from Shujin act all dignified to better show off the little composition of cherry blossom adorning the bosom of their black blazers.

Okumura inclines the phone in different ways, unsatisfied with the outcome.

“Akira, do you think you can move your cam a bit? You don’t show up very well in the frame.”

“Oh sure, wait a sec.” His voice comes out heavily cracked by the speakers, and slightly de-synced from the video.

Futaba groans. “I can’t believe you lived up until now with that crappy internet connection. How are you even managing?”

“By admiring the great landscapes and nothingness outside my window.” His chest presses against the camera, blocking off the view. A switch clicks, and there’s more confused shuffling. He settles back on the chair: he’s framed almost down to his waist, a blue cylinder in his hand and Morgana peeking up from his lap. He’s wearing a grey tunic with silver buttons and some high school logo embroidered in aqua-blue just above his heart. Overall, it suits him way less than Shujin’s palette.

Not that she should be thinking about silly things like that. Not in this moment of joy, anyway, when she’s supposed to celebrate the academic success of their upperclassmen.

She lowers her gaze, closes both hands around the cup of coffee, tight, and takes a small sip to hide her face. Scorching hot and bitterly delicious, as always.

“Much better!” Okumura chirps. “Give me your best smiles!”

A sequence of shots goes off from her phone. She reviews them and nods.

“I’ll send everything in the group chat later.”

Takamaki grins and lays her cylinder back on the counter. “Thanks, Haru!”

“Man, it still doesn’t feel real,” Sakamoto laments, falling on the cushion of one of the booths. He grabs a packet of chips and accepts the soda Niijima is handing over.

“You did an amazing job, everyone,” she says as if it’s an official speech in the school’s theatre. “Now keep working hard on your goals – don’t be tempted to take it easy just because you’ve entered university.”

“Easy, Ms. Prez.” Sakamoto downs half the soda in one go. “Hey, Sumi. Won’t it be lonely with all of us gone from Shujin?”

The spotlight lights up over her head, in the form of 7 pairs of eyes plus 2 digital ones, all converging on her. Her body heats up. It’s not like they had many occasions to hang out after school, save from Phantom Thieves business, but she doesn’t wish to bring the mood down.

“I think it will be a bit lonely, yes. But since after Nationals I intensified my training regimen even more, so I think between that and school work, I’ll have plenty on my plate to focus on!”

Niijima purses her lips. “How is practice doing?”

She asks it with the tone of a conversational question, but with the air of someone testing mined ground.

Sumire shoots a glance at the laptop. Akira is scratching Morgana’s head, but his eyes lock with hers. She didn’t plan on announcing it to everyone so soon, but she did promise she would have shared with the group major upcoming meetings.

She clears her voice, warmth still coursing under her face.

“I’d say everything is progressing pretty well! And speaking about it…” Her gaze darts between everyone in the room, each encouraging nod an added shade of red on her cheeks. “This year’s selections for Japan National Team will take place next month, on April 22^nd, in Takasaki. It’s a Sunday, so I hope it won’t be in the way of everyone’s plans.” She fiddles with the hem of her blazer. “You’re all invited to come to see me if you’d like it.”

The roar she’s met with is just as strong and enthusiastic as the one for the newly graduated. People shake her hands, pat her shoulders, jokingly punch her arms – it’s like being in a flipper of cheering and encouragement.

Dazed, she turns to Senpai over the screen.

‘Good job’, he mouths. A faint shudder travels down her spine. She pulls out a little smile.

The last notes of the song die down, and Sumire crosses a black pair of clubs above her head and bends her body back, with knees digging in the thin mat. The clubs swing up and down following the heaving of her breaths. The gymnasium lights are blinding.

A wave of cries for her last exhibition raises from the public, all shouting and applauses. She allows her limbs to relax, and slowly raises to her feet and stumbles towards the kiss and cry, where Coach Hiraguchi is waiting for her. Her expression is unreadable.

“You did well.”

Sumire grimaces. She lost more than a couple of difficulty tenths during Risks, and the end of the routine hasn’t been her top execution so far – she still has a lot of stamina to build, if she aims to step up her game even further. She sits down on the little white couch.

“I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“We’ll see. You built up quite a nice score with both the ribbon and the hoop. Don’t approach this as if you’ve already lost.”

The irony of it… she should’ve learned that lesson already after last year.

She passes both her arms through the sleeves of the hoodie and pulls up the zipper, chewing on her lower lip. A fourteen. Fourteen is all she needs in order to score third and secure a spot in the National Senior Team.

She squints at the bleachers surrounding the exhibition floor, maybe she can manage to spot the others. But they’re too far away, lost in the crowd of spectators.

She retreats her hands inside the sleeves of the sweater and clenches them. At least fourteen, at least fourteen. Her heartbeat is shooting like crazy. Why is the jury so slow to elaborate on the score?

The loudspeakers crackle. Her heart stops. Numbers appear on the displays hanging from the ceiling, bright red on white.

“The united jury evaluated the exhibition of Sumire Yoshizawa at the clubs with a total score of 14.200.”

Her head jolts towards Coach Hiraguchi, who is grinning at her with her arms wide open.

“You made it, Sumire. Congratulation!”

Each syllable tickles against her ear, and she hugs her Coach tighter.

“What do I do now?” she whispers.

“Are you even asking? Get up and reclaim your place on the podium.”

Sumire handles back the apparatus and jumps on her feet. The world spins around her, but she keeps walking toward the podium area.

With her heart knotted halfway through her throat, she lines up with two other gymnasts before the three steps she’s dreamed of for her entire life – they might not be the Olympics yet, but it’s a start. It’s her first podium.

Her name gets called first. She steps forward, the flashing of cameras both blinding and unnervingly loud. She stretches her widest smile and waves to all the people in Takasaki Arena rooting for her. They clap, they chant, they record the moment – and it’s not for Kasumi. It’s for her.

With her vision clouding – eyes prickling at the corners – she climbs the lower step of the podium and does her best to restrain the sniff that her nose so desperately needs. A member of the staff comes closer, a bronze medal in his palm and a bouquet in the other. She bows, and the proof of her victory is hung on her neck: it’s heavier than she could’ve ever imagined, a physical weight before her chest that makes the red and white strap securing it grate against the skin of her nape.

She clenches her fingers around the stems of the bouquet, a composition of sunflowers and other assorted greenery. It’s done. She’s on the National Senior Team now. Officially. Irrevocably. She swallows down the tears and does her best to maintain a solemn composure.

The other two gymnasts have climbed the podium, and the public is wild for the three of them. The press gestures them to lean closer to one another to take better photos – she scoots a bit to the left and, imitating he colleagues, she raises both her bouquet and her medal.

Her head is floating. Sounds come numbed to her mind, like everything is covered in fog and cotton. She’s never had a teardrop of alcohol her whole life but the hangover tales from her older cousins always had these things in common.

There are questions, to which she answers; there are photos, for which she poses, smiling; there are selfies, in which she will be tagged by other gymnasts in the coming hours.

She staggers down the podium and towards the changing rooms, more tired than after performing four routines in a row.

“Sumire Yoshizawa? Can we have a word?”

“Of course!” she replies, mind and tongue on autopilot. She turns – a woman in her thirties with inky, silken hair tied in a bun that lost strands from the scrunchie here and there along the day.

“Oh, Miss Morimoto!”

The journalist lightly bows. “I’m flattered you remember about me. How are you doing? Do you think you can allow me an interview with the newest and youngest member of the National Senior Team?”

Sumire bows and politely nods – she has no clue what Miss Morimoto would want to ask her that she hasn’t already told all her other colleagues, but it wouldn’t be nice to refuse at this point.

“That’s wonderful! Thank you for your time.” She fishes a notebook from the satchel hanging from her right shoulder and clicks the upper end of a pen three times. “Let’s start with something easy: how are you feeling about today’s victory?”

Sumire giggles. “Is ‘happy’ too obvious as a response?”

“I suppose it’s understandable,” she hums with a smile.

“Truly, I’m grateful to my Coach and everyone supporting me for making it, this year. I worked really hard and this feels like it paid off? To an extent.”

She nods a few times, scribbling. “Sure, sure. What do you think has been decisive in you reaching the podium today?”

A part of her feels that luck played an important role, given how better she could’ve performed her final routine. The word rolls on her tongue, the urge of confessing it like an itch on her body to scratch. She tries to play it cool and professional.

“As I was saying, I trained a lot with my Coach in the past months to increase my odds to do better than last year. We changed the music, for one, and worked on raising the Difficulty scores but most of all we tried to build a stronger Character that could draw out the best of my features.” Her face is flushing but she keeps up the smile and repeats the words Coach Hiraguchi ingrained in her mind week after week of practice. She even dares to attempt a joke by raising the bronze medal on her neck. “I think we pursued the right path!”

Miss Morimoto laughs, with her voice and mouth and eyes, so it doesn’t seem farfetched.

“I must say, we have all been very surprised by your sudden change in music. It’s not common for gymnasts to start from scratch once the season has started. Care to clarify what guided this choice?”

Sumire flinches, her mouth opening and gasping for the right words. She can’t begin to explain even a fraction of the full story, but how should she phrase it in a way that doesn’t seem weird, or embarrassing?

She takes a breath.

“I don’t know if it makes sense but my previous tracks didn’t… feel right? They weren’t aiding me in expressing who I truly am, so my Coach branched out towards more classical choices. And I like the aura of more traditional gymnastics quite a lot!”

The woman nods while writing. Her pen is practically sprinting on the paper.

“Music is fundamental in this sport, so I get what you’re saying. In the end, did you pick the options by yourself?”

“Oh no, it’s too early—”

Could she really say her contribution has been limited to just excluding options and pointing out what she didn’t want as her designed music because it was too scary performing on those? Both major pieces of classical music and traditional gymnastics picks made her nervous about not being enough – in the end, Coach Hiraguchi settled for some niche tracks that gave the right feeling but without a long history of talented performers executing them weighing on Sumire’s shoulders.

She clears her voice to correct herself – she doesn’t want to give the impression that her Coach is doing tasks in her stead, or that she doesn’t care as long as she has a routine to perform.

Miss Morimoto is eyeing her, waiting for an answer. Sumire scratches the back of her neck with her free hand, where the medal strap hangs heavy.

“What I meant, is that I still lack the experience to choose the tracks completely on my own, so I would say it’s been more of a fifty-fifty process.”

“That is understandable, yes,” Miss Morimoto confirms, luckily. “You and your Coach seem to make a great pair. I wish I could have a word with her, but I expect her to be very busy right now.” She chuckles. “Just a couple more questions and then we’re done.” She traces a long line and starts writing under it. “What is the aspect of your performance you worked the hardest on?”

Sumire chews on the inner part of her cheek. She has pretty much beaten herself over everything – she was lacking in several fields and still does, probably. But if she absolutely has to choose…

“I’d say the expression of who I truly am.” She fidgets with the paper enveloping the bouquet, making it crackle. “Coach says I possess a natural grace and delicate beauty while I dance, so I tried my best to infuse that in every step of my routines.”

The tips of her ears turn hotter, but it’s true. For how difficult it is not to be Kasumi or try to imitate her, she should be on the right path now. Hopefully.

Miss Morimoto finishes taking note of her response and adjusts a loose strand of hair coming off her bun. It slips off again.

“Very well, we’re almost done. Allow me just one final question.” She winks. “Last year you told me about an Olympic medal… how does that dream feel today?”

Oh.

Well, it makes sense for her to ask that, as much as it’s uncommon for people to remember what Sumire says. She nibs at her lower lip, shifting weight from leg to leg. Her stomach twists with something she can’t name, but it’s heavy.

Should she answer honestly? Should she bluff completely? Maybe she can try to make a joke as she did before – or maybe that would be ridiculous since she already used that tactic once.

The journalist keeps glancing at her. Once again.

God, interviews aren’t her thing whatsoever, huh? She always ends up overthinking it. How would it be nice, to have Senpai’s proverbial poker face, so that she couldn’t worry about letting out more than she wants to show.

“I would say it’s become clearer.”

She frowns. “Did you mean closer?”

“Oh, no,” she gestures. How does she explain that? The last thing she wants is to appear flimsy. “I still have a long way to go, this is just the first step, so while the goal sure has become closer, I think it’s me the one who has a clearer idea of what I should do from now on. To make our dream come true. If that makes sense?”

“Our dream?”

Mine and Kasumi’s.

“Mine and my family’s,” she corrects, sputtering a bit. “They’re very supportive!”

Miss Morimoto simply notes down the last sentence and observes what she has written.

“You always give me interesting responses,” she mumbles. Sumire hopes it’s true and not just a polite way of ending the interview, but she wouldn’t bet on it.

The other lays the pen in the middle of the notebook, closes it between the pages, and puts everything back in her satchel.

“I mean what I said, by the way.” Her black gaze is piercing. “You’re still young, and it shows, yet there’s a certain maturity around you and how you act that I would expect from a much more experienced gymnast.”

Sumire clicks her tongue – she wouldn’t label how she behaved before joining the Phantom Thieves as ‘mature’, and even prior to that, she’s always been the one who trailed behind Kasumi, quiet and shy. Maybe that is what adults like and praise as maturity, and maybe that’s why she appears as such.

“Thank you,” she can only whisper, and bows.

“Thank you for your time,” she bows in return. “As always, you will find the interview on the online columns of Takasaki Sports News by this evening. Feel free to send it to your friends and family!”

Oh, they’d absolutely know how to find it even if I didn’t.

“Sure!”

She waves her hand, and Miss Morimoto sets off to the next interview.

Sumire exhales a tired sigh, and resumes her retreat to the changing rooms – she could be a winner, but for how much the exhaustion is gnawing at her from every inch of her body and soul, she could as well have placed last. She’s definitely not suited for being under the spotlight.

She pushes the heavy door open and several pairs of eyes turn to look at her, and a rush of blood runs through her body.

For the most part, gymnasts return to what they were doing before seeing her. Sumire strides toward her chunky bag and all her apparati, and only a few are still gazing at her. She forces herself to keep it cool and, staring at the white tiled wall before her, slowly pulls off the slippers from her feet and removes her club’s hoodie. She searches in her bag for the club’s t-shirt and a pair of leggings and starts peeling off the semi-transparent sleeves of the leotard, taking her time, slowly breathing in and out.

By the time she’s dressed, most gymnasts exited the changing room, and only the ones that dragged their interviews long remain. She slips in her worn-out snickers and grabs the zipper of the hoodie to close it.

She stops halfway through. That would hide the medal.

She bows her chin and takes in the bronze circle that still hangs from her neck. What is she supposed to do with it? Athletes normally keep wearing theirs, and she’s proud of what she achieved but this certainly isn’t an Olympic medal or something grand like that.

Anyway. She’s running late enough.

She lets the hoodie open and wears her jacket. She squeezes the hoop in its cover, closes the bag, and lifts them both on her right shoulder. With her free hand, she clenches the sunflower bouquet and exits the changing room.

Coach Hiraguchi is waiting outside.

“Better late than never, Sumire,” she not so jokingly taunts.

“Sorry, ma’am!”

“C’mon, everyone is waiting for you outside,” she chuckles. “Congratulations on your achievement today. You deserved it. How are you feeling?”

She probably has to fully process it still. Her body aches, her eyelids weigh a bit too much for a mid-afternoon, and her soul has been drained out from all the interviews. She half-smiles.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m glad it ended now.”

Coach lightly shakes her head. “Try to endure it a little more for your friends and family, won’t you? They all want to celebrate. And besides, this too is a form of training, you know.” She smirks. “The more you’ll get closer to the Olympics, the more people will be demanding your time and attention.”

A groan rises through her chest but she swallows it down.

“Yes ma’am! I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good girl. Now go. Your moment isn’t over yet.”

She stretches a full smile and walks down the long corridor connecting the athletes’ changing room with the reserved entry. Most of the crowd already left the Arena, and only gymnasts and their closest ones remain to lurk around, taking photos.

“Hey! Sumi!!”

Sakamoto’s voice comes boasting, his hand waving in her direction. He’s ahead of the whole group.

“Hey, everyone!” she waves back, swinging her sunflower bouquet.

She’s yet again surrounded by people and voices, each of them asking a different question or complimenting her on a different thing, their enthusiasm a constant flow of overwhelming waves.

“Guys, let her breathe!” Futaba kicks in, shaking her arms to make a little more space around Sumire. She turns to her with a deadly serious expression. “I tanked the mob. Are you all right? Need healing?”

Since she has no clue on how to respond to that, Sumire just giggles.

“I’m all right, thank you. And thank you, everyone, for coming to see me today and cheering for me!”

“We’ve gotcha,” Sakamoto says, his fingers clenched in a punch.

“Yeah, you slayed today,” Takamaki adds.

“You did very well,” Niijima confirms.

“Your performance was wonderful!” Okumura dreamily sighs. “I cannot wait to see one live again, it truly was a display of beauty and strength.”

“A majestic spectacle indeed,” Kitagawa muses. “I will have to evaluate some sort of piece to frame the art of gymnastics in the future.”

“Guys!!” Futaba calls out, dragging the y to an impossible extent. A wave of ‘sorry!’ comes next, and Sumire can’t help but burst into a deep laugh. She’s been so paranoid about interacting with the group in fear of not being really part of it when in reality they’ve been there for her the whole time.

“Hey, Sumi,” Akira’s voice breaks through the chaos, low but precise in its trajectory, making a shiver run down her spine. “Where do you want to go for dinner? It’s on us for the celebrations.”

Dinner?

She turns hot from the tip of her nose to the tip of her ears, her heart in freefall mode. She didn’t account for a party. She hasn’t achieved something that big to deserve a party.

“I’m not sure it’s the case, really…”

Futaba pouts. “Uh-uh, it absolutely is!”

Her stomach growls, the ingrateful betrayer. She’d forced herself to eat a proper breakfast in preparation for the competition but had been too tense to swallow down more than a protein bar and an orange juice for lunch.

Senpai is still looking at her. His liquid gaze shimmers under the sun that is starting its descent, not proper dusk yet, but with rays losing intensity and slowly beginning to turn orange. It’s almost like being in Leblanc, with the dimmed lamps half-lit. She could really use a coffee or two right now.

She tears her eyes off Akira and glances at the whole group. “I’ll admit that I’m a bit hungry after this day. How about we go to a place that offers a bit of everything? This way, everyone gets to choose what they like!”

“Say no more,” Futaba flashily takes out her phone and starts typing on it. “And… restaurant spotted. Setting the quickest route to the food. Beginning navigation: everyone, follow me!”

She hops ahead of the group and marches towards the main exit gate.

Takamaki giggles. “Jeez, it almost feels like the old days.”

“She sure grew up a lot,” Niijima agrees.

The others start walking after her; only Akira stays still, willingly being left behind. His eyes are once more on her, and just on her.

“You sure about the dinner? I wasn’t going to force you into it.”

“It’s not too bad, I promise. And after all the energies I spent today, I indeed need to eat something.”

“Good,” he nods. He’s turning to follow the others. Sumire clenches her fingers around the bouquet, the little bumps and leaves of the stem sinking into her skin through the plastic paper.

“Senpai.”

Akira shifts back to her, a little curl in his smile as if he was expecting her to have something more to say. He simply glances at her. She swallows, heat creeping back up to her face, the air surrounding them thicker than a late April afternoon should allow for.

“I wanted to thank you. I know I have everyone’s support, but you did more than anyone to support me.” She bows. The words are heavy on her tongue, so much that she’d rather speak them with her head down. But that just won’t do.

She jolts up and locks her gaze back with him, holding her chin high and firm like she did that day, in the summer of last year. It might be selfish, but if she cannot aim for his undivided attention, she at least wants to make it clear what his divided attention and unconditioned support means to her.

“I know the climb has just begun. I have many steps still ahead of me, and it won’t be easy. Please, keep staying by my side. I know that as long as you’re watching me, I’ll push myself to give everything I’ve got.”

Akira’s mouth opens in a little oval, the set of his shoulders flinch, and he keeps staying silent.

Savoring this little piece of revenge on him – or, maybe, too embarrassed at her boldness to stomach the conversation for a second longer – she adjusts the bag handles and hoop cover on her shoulder, and walks away from Takasaki Arena, seeking the bright orange of Futaba’s hair.

Sumire strides through the chattering of post-lessons Shujin’s corridors, body the nearest against the wall as if she’s sneaking into a Palace. The folder of papers she’s holding in her right hand rustles constantly against the plaster.

Heads and eyes turn to her as she traverses the flood of students transferring from classrooms to laboratories for the afternoon activities. Some whispers also arise, and she does her best to keep her focus on the objective.

The teacher’s lounge comes into sight. The door is open, showing a few people at their desks revising papers or typing on their computers. She knocks nonetheless.

The murmurs intensify. A distasteful ‘Asking for special treatment again?’ makes it to her ears. She clenches the folder tighter and knocks again.

Mr. Uchiyama raises his head from a pile of documents and nods to her.

“Ah, Yoshizawa! Please, come in. You brought the updated schedule with you, I imagine?”

“Yes sir.”

She slips into the room without a second thought. The other teachers shoot glances in her direction that prompt goosebumps on her arms, yet anything is better than being left in the open sea of Shujin’s gossiping.

She stops in front of her section’s responsible and hands him the folder. He adjusts the thin glasses on his long nose and studies through them on his desk.

“Excellent, thank you.” He flips through pages of calendars, training programs, flight schedules, and other assorted bureaucracy. She wonders if he truly understands half a word of what is written inside, or nods with the air of an aristocrat just for show.

“Very well,” he mumbles, in the tone of a person who’s reading through complicated astrophysics theorems. “Lots of international meetings, I see. The Asian Games, World Championships in Sofia… very, very well.” He regroups the sheets in one pile, closes the folder back, and puts it aside. “I will make sure to share these with the school board and inform your professors of your upcoming competitions.” He faintly bows to her, no more than a lowering of his chin. “Congratulations for making it to the National Senior Team. You are upholding the name of Shujin’s High.”

She bows back and mutters through almost-gritted teeth: “Thank you very much. I am doing my best and will do even better in the future.”

Now he’s complimenting her, but a mere year or so ago, Mr. Uchiyama was amongst those who had doubted she still deserved the honor student status because of how poorly she was doing with gymnastics. She hopes her voice isn’t coming off as too trembling or fake.

“We all wish so. As a third-year student, it’s your duty to make the time you have left at Shujin count.” For her or the school, he doesn’t specify, but Sumire doesn’t need him to, anyway.

She pulls the corners of her lips as upward as she can.

“Did you need something else, professor?”

“Oh no, we are good on papers, thank you.” He waves a hand. “But there is another matter I shall discuss with you. It will take a while, so please have a seat.” He gestures towards a chair on an empty desk behind her. “Miss Kawakami won’t mind, I am sure. Besides, she’s supervising the after-school study group right now.”

Sumire turns the chair towards Mr. Uchiyama and sits down. The clock in her peripheral vision marks 5.15 pm, which means she’s on the verge of being late for her training session.

“You know about Kokushikan University, I’m sure.”

She blinks, startled. “Pardon me?”

“Kokushikan University,” he repeats, with the tone of a parent explaining basic math to a child. She keeps her body from slouching in the chair in the attempt of disappearing – out of politeness if anything. She’s already heard that name somewhere but no more than that, yet somehow she’s expected to perfectly understand what Mr. Uchiyama is talking about.

“Is it that private university located in Setagaya?”

“Yes, exactly.” He nods, a little more complacent. “It’s a one-hundred-year-old institution that educates future generations on the principle of ‘knowledge and action’. An admirable philosophy, considering the state of the world these days. But I am digressing.” He waves a hand as if those are subjects that she cannot possibly grasp. She clenches her fists – she’s heard those a little too often, in truth.

“After your official entry into Japan’s National Senior Team, they contacted us to offer you an opportunity to continue your studies there. They have a renowned scholarship program for athletes, you know. It would be a great opportunity, both for your future and for our school’s network of relationships.”

The faded memory of a conversation pops up in her head at that, but it’s too out of reach for her to focus on it now.

“…I see.”

“Enrolling isn’t guaranteed just because they put their eyes on you, of course. There would be some conditions to be met for them to offer you a full scholarship.”

She nods, scratching the fabric of the office chair with her nails. Her palms feel sweaty.

“What would I need to do, then?”

“Needless to say, competing on an international level and passing the national test with top grades is the minimum required; then you’ll need a letter of recommendation from our school.” Elbows on the desk, he crosses his fingers under his chin. “Which we are of course happy to provide, given that your agonistic results stay consistent, and your exam scores don’t drop.”

There’s an unspoken ‘again’ in the air that grates against her skin and her nerves.

“I won’t disappoint you,” she states, a promise to herself and a lowkey threat to him.

“Excellent!” he trills as if that isn’t the only response he and the school would’ve accepted from her. “I shall communicate that you are interested in the offer and will do your best to meet the requirements. I will let you know if the University board will demand to schedule an in-person meeting.”

She bows. The clock marks 5.40. She’s officially late for her training and Coach Hiraguchi is going to scold her so much. “Thank you very much for your willingness, sir.”

“One more thing before you go, Yoshizawa.” He stops her with one hand even before she has the chance to stand up. “Since you are a third-year student who is shaping her future, I must remind you that the club you’re currently training under is associated with Shujin’s High, and doesn’t support students outside of their diploma. This might be a topic you should also want to discuss with your coach.”

“Right, sir. I will bear that in mind, thank you.”

He nods. “Have a good evening, and do your best with your training.” It sounds like a lecture more than encouragement but she bows, puts the chair back at Miss Kawakami’s desk, and exits the teachers’ lounge.

Only distant steps and occasional exchanges from students who are late in heading home fill the corridor. She heaves a deep sigh and descends the staircase down to her classroom. She sneaks between the empty lines of desks, picks up her schoolbag and gym bag, and exits from the main gate.

It’s almost 6 pm and she should’ve been doing her warm-up exercises already. With a groan, she dials Coach Hiraguchi’s number, who picks up after the first ring.

“Sumire?”

“I am really, really sorry Coach!” She blocks her body from bowing in the middle of the street and strides towards the Aoyama-Itchome subway station. “I had to hand some papers to my section supervisor, and he kept me there more than I thought he would… I’m heading to the gym right now.”

There’s a half sigh, half laugh coming from the other side of the line.

“I figured that’d be something important, you’ve never been the type to be late.”

“Sorry!”

“Don’t worry, I understand that it was something that had to be done. Just be sure to alert me the next time, so I know where you are in case you have business at school to attend to and had to stay behind.”

“Of course, ma’am! Won’t happen again!”

She stops in front of the station’s staircase, breath heavy from the run and the apologies, and searches for her commuting pass in the schoolbag. Coach Hiraguchi chuckles.

“Anyway, what did your supervisor have to tell you that took this long? Nothing troublesome, I hope.”

Sumire slides the card on the scanner and crosses the metro gates.

“Not at all! He said that there’s a private university interested in offering me a sports scholarship for gymnastics.” She glances over the departure board and trots towards the right platform. “He also reminded me that I need to find a new club to train under after I graduate since Shujin’s one won’t do anymore.”

“I see,” is all that Coach Hiraguchi comments. The line goes silent.

“Coach?”

“I admit that the issue of your training post-graduation has come a lot to my mind since after you placed third in the National meeting. We shall discuss this more in person, so I ask that you stop by my office after training. But I think you might aim for the Aeon Club.”

She freezes in the middle of the stairs. Most prestigious gymnastic club in Tokyo, one of the major in the country, and the host of the clubs’ competition Aeon Cup – that Aeon Club?

“The Aeon Club?!”

“Why so surprised? You’re officially a gymnast of Japan’s National Senior Team. You entered the elite of the country and will take part in some of the world’s biggest and most important meetings in the coming months. Given your status, all the Aeon Club requires at this point is an interview and a recital. I’m sure you can pull it off.”

 “But Coach…”

She clicks her tongue. “No pushing yourself down, Sumire. You have to be confident in your capabilities and take credit for the hard work you put into everything you do. For now, just focus on getting here and doing well in today’s training. We’ll talk better once you’re finished.”

Sumire sighs. “Yes ma’am. Coming.”

“See you soon.” And there’s a hint of a smile in that line.

Sumire hangs up. The train enters the station, screeching metal wheels against railways. She scoots aside to allow commuters to exit the car and steps inside the still crowded train.

“The Aeon Club, huh…” she mutters under her breath. The subway departs, and the ‘Aoyama-Itchome’ sign nailed against the plastered wall of the tunnel disappears from her vision.

Sumire: Hello Senpai
Sumire: Big news!
Sumire: A university has expressed interest in offering me a sports scholarship, as long as I’ll keep being a part of Japan National Senior Team!

Kurusu Akira: hey sumi
Kurusu Akira: that’s great!
Kurusu Akira: what uni?

Sumire: The Kokushikan University
Sumire: It’s a private one, and the main campus is located in Setagaya. They’re very famous for hosting promising atlethes, apparently!

Kurusu Akira: no shit
Kurusu Akira: it’s the same as ryuji’s

Sumire: for real???

Chapter Text

Puffs of breath condense in smoke-like clouds before the lens of her glasses and disperse in the air of the night. Cold pricks against the skin of her hand, so she presses the phone between her ear and shoulders and clenches the paralyzed fingertips with her other ones, savoring the unhelpful but warm friction of skin against skin.

“Yes mom, I know. I won’t be too late, I promise.”

“I’m just worried for you, Sumi,” the voice cackles from the other side of the line. “You’ve barely had the time to slow down during the holidays. We’re visiting the temple with your grandparents tomorrow and it will be a busy day after that. You need to rest.”

Sumire sighs. “You’re right but… Mr. Sakura’s been so kind to invite me to the celebration, I don’t want to be rude. Besides, I already have a ride back home so I won’t disturb you.”

A low mumble comes from the speaker. “I trust your judgment. Do you have the keys and everything?”

“Yes mom, everything’s with me, as usual.”

“Good.” She’s probably smiling, despite everything. “Have a good evening and thank Mr. Sakura for us, alright?”

“Will do! Say to grandpa and grandma that I love them. Bye!”

She hangs the call and slides the phone back into her pocket, and her hands follow suit. She leans against the freezing brick wall and lays the top of her head on the surface. The night sky is clear after the snowing of the afternoon, a sweep of bluish-black with less than a tenth of bright dots sprinkled here and there.

Her lungs exhale a deep breath that morphs into a mist.

It’s barely past midnight and it would be a miracle if she keeps the spirit up for another hour – but she doubts Niijima and Okumura will leave before 2 am. And they’ve been kind enough to offer her a ride back home, she shouldn’t be imposing her schedule on them. After some fresh air and one or two cups of coffee—

She yawns with a loud and dragged sound. Luckily there’s no one around to witness such bad manners.

“Damn it,” she swears under her breath. She raises her fingers to brush her eyes but stops right before making a mess of the makeup Takamaki so kindly helped her apply before the party. She pinches the skin of her cheeks, hard, and pulls them out. The stretch reaches down to her lower lip, which splits on the dried skin of the surface. She recoils, but the sting of pain is enough to shake her, at least.

And then the bell of Leblanc rings.

“Hey, Sumi.”

Akira slithers out of the door like he’s made of water. She doesn’t know who is more of a cat, between him and Morgana. She pushes her glasses back up on her nose and spreads her sore lips into a hopefully not-too-tired smile.

“Hey there!”

“Everything good with your family?”

“They just wanted to wish me a happy new year and make sure I don’t come home too late this night. Tomorrow will be packed.” She hastily detaches from the wall and straightens her posture more properly. “Have I been out too long? I didn’t want to make you worry… we can head back now.”

Akira observes her with the gaze he wears when the gears in his head are spinning, half his face glowing in the light coming through the glass of the door and the other half a colder shade tinged by the backstreets lamps of Yongen.

“Don’t feel obliged to,” he simply states. “The thieves are loud when they party. A bit of quiet is nice.”

Bursts of laughter seep through from the café as if summoned. She leans back against the wall, chin sinking into the scarf and heart to her feet, and she buries her hands further into the pockets of her coat. She gently shakes her head.

“It’s not that. The party is lovely, and I’m grateful for the invitation.”

It doesn’t sound convincing even to her own ears so it’s guaranteed that Akira picked something up. Damn it. She dips the point of her right booth into soft and pristine snow.

“I’m just a bit tired, is all,” she concedes. It shouldn’t bring the mood down too much.

He hums. Doesn’t elaborate. She keeps her gaze low: she’s not brave enough to face him with those tired eyes of her and bags that black lines and strata of concealer are just barely hiding. Takamaki shot her a frown before performing her magic on her face, but said nothing, luckily.

A solid weight presses on the wall beside her, radiating warmth and the spicy scent of Leblanc and just a hint of laundry soap.

She gulps. Between the freezing air of the night and the scorching heat that’s seizing her body, something is keeping her body locked on the spot. With a knot in her stomach, she adjusts her position and squirms against the wall beside Akira, shoulders a tremble away from touching.

It’s nice. More than nice. The nicest gift the holidays brought so far, actually.

Lacking an Amrita spell to clear her head from the embarrassment fog, she clears her voice.

“I’ve been… having a lot on my plate, lately. It’s starting to take a toll on me.”

“The entrance exams?”

She can’t contain the grimace that twists her lips and makes the cut throb, but she keeps her gaze buried into the bathhouse entry across the alley.

“Yes… and no. Immediately after the World Championships, I had to step up my routines even further while also juggling between high school and cram school. I have to study so my grades don’t drop, I have to make sure I ace the entrance exams to enter the university that scouted me, and I have to build even more complex routines and make sure I execute them perfectly.”

She inhales, deeply. The knot moves from the pit of her stomach to the middle of her throat. She should stop the oversharing before it gets too depressed or too awkward for the both of them but it’s like a snowball that’s turning into an avalanche.

“It’s been going on like this since September. But the closer the big dates get, the more I fear I will mess up.”

The streets of Yongen are quiet, so she keeps her voice low.

“What if all the hard work is for nothing? Maybe I’m not focusing on preparation enough and the test will be too difficult. Maybe the recital won’t go well, or maybe I won’t even have to do the recital since I won nothing in the World Championships. Or what if—”

“Sumire, breathe.”

Akira blinks at her with little dimples peeking out from under his fringe, just in between his eyebrows. She pushes one traitorous sob back down her throat and shuts her moist eyes closed. Wool rasps against the tip of her nose, traps each controlled exhale, and puts it on display as a cloudy stain on her glasses. Her voice comes out strangled.

“I’m not suited for this. I tried, but…”

She should try harder. Be better, stronger, firmer. Coach Hiraguchi insists she’s progressing and shouldn’t be defined by her mistakes but learning how to learn from them it’s so difficult when it always feels like it’s never enough. Like she’s never enough. Even when she’s doing everything by the book, putting her best efforts into reaching their dream because she’s the only one who can do it but something’s still missing and the world refuses to give her some kind of answer no matter how hard she tries to understand—

A whimper escapes her, as a bullet fired in the silence.

And an arm slips around her shoulders, a hand closing on her left forearm, and she’s pulled into Akira’s side. His scent is even stronger and the coziness of it all embraces her like a proper hug.

She’s making him worry. She shouldn’t. She’s not the scared crybaby Sumire anymore – except, apparently, she still is since holding back from weeping requires all her teeth to clench and she’s completely ruining new year’s night for another person.

“Sorry,” she whispers, cracked. “And thank you.” Because he doesn’t have to but he’s doing it anyway.

“Anytime,” he whispers back and tightens the grip.

“I really hope not,” she mutters. The bathhouse entrance is blurred before her. She hopes the tears aren’t smudging her makeup – she wouldn’t know the first thing about fixing it.

She inhales, all snowy air and Akira. Sumire of two years ago would’ve melted at this point and probably squeaked something about respecting the appropriate distance but her mind is sore and her body exhausted and she can’t force her dignity to care even if she wanted to.

She exhales and straightens up a bit. The almost-embrace relaxes but doesn’t let loose.

“Better?” he asks.

“Better,” she nods. “Thank you again. And sorry again for ruining your evening.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But Senpai…”

“What’s left?”

The shift in tone makes her jolt, turning her face to him, finally: trails of breath leave his mouth from a slim gap between his lips and raise between silver eyes that could turn her to molten chocolate even if they’re colder in hue than the snow outside. Just a hint of his lower lip juts forward.

Her chest tightens.

“Huh?” is all she manages to say.

“You said you had a lot on your plate.”

“Oh! Uhm…” she blinks, but concepts and words shy away from her mind and mouth. She recites her calendar by heart. “Excluding international competitions that will depend on my permanence in the National Senior Team, the entrance exams will be held on the 20^th. Then I have a recital and an admission interview for the club I should be training under once I graduate. And after that, Nationals once more.”

“That’s a lot, yeah.”

It is. She shouldn’t think about how Kasumi would’ve been able to handle all that with zero problems… but a part of her that irks like an itch to be scratched can’t stop feeling like it’s simply true. Kasumi would’ve been able to handle all that with zero problems, indeed.

Akira retreats his arm and pinches the tip of his chin. Sumire’s heart clenches at the loss of contact but she doesn’t want to give up on the warmth radiating from his body so she purposefully keeps the nearly no space left between them. He’s cute like that. And just like that late July afternoon almost two years ago, he’s looking a bit like Akechi.

“I already have somewhere to be on the 20^th so I can’t make it…” he thinks aloud. “When’s the recital?”

“In February,” she answers, pure instinct and no clue what the point is. “On the 9^th.”

He smiles, brightly, as if relieved it’s on the 9^th and not any other day of February.

“Good. Okay, cool.” He nods. “I’ll be there.”

“You… what?” she sputters.

“I’m going with you.” He curls on the edge of his lips. “If you want me.”

Of course I want you.

She chews the inner part of her cheek. It’s always different, performing when she knows he’s looking, but she doesn’t even know if spectators are allowed, if she should ask Coach Hiraguchi first, or simply if it’s okay for her to occupy his time on a Saturday like she has any right to… like she’s his girlfriend?!

A shiver runs down her spine while blood rushes up to her face. She clutches the lower hem of her coat. Strangles it. Silly. It’s Akira, it’s perfectly normal of him to offer something like that. It’s not like he hasn’t done the same for any other of the Thieves. Silly Sumire.

“Okay,” she breathes out. Calm and collected. As cool as the night. “Okay. I’ll ask my coach for permission. I’ll let you know if she gives the green light.”

He puts his hands in the pocket of his jeans, shrugs, and wears the most annoyingly knowing grin.

“Better?” he says, in the tone of someone who asked just for the pleasure of hearing the response he already knows.

“Better,” she gladly confirms, nonetheless. She’s exhausted, body and mind, but her spirit sure received a pretty intense spike this evening.

One of his hands slips out from the pocket and raises to scratch the back of his neck.

“Also, if you’re too tired and need some rest you can always use my b—”

The bell of Leblanc chimes, a powerful trill in the quiet of the night, and the by now only half-blond head of Sakamoto peeks out of the door.

“Hey man!”

He exits the café and brushes the side of his arms to fight the cold. “Your parents called Sojiro to wish him a happy new year. Said they wanted to hear about you, too.” His eyes dart from Akira to Sumire and back to Akira and back to Sumire. A tone redder on the face, he blinks.

“Shit. I hope I haven’t ruined something.”

The tips of her ear turn scorching hot.

“Oh, no, don’t worry! We were about to head back…”

She glances at Akira, slumped toward the other boy. His face is covered by thick curls but the set of his shoulders is more stiffened than before.

“My parents, huh…”

“Yeah. Dude…”

“It’s okay. I’ll go say hi.” He turns to her and pulls out a smile. “See you later.”

Puzzled, she waves him a hand.

The glass door closes behind his back, and Yongen-Jaya’s silence downs back on a new pair of lonely people.

Sakamoto kicks the air and some snow off the ground. He’s only glancing at her from the corner of his vision.

“I did ruin something, didn’t I?”

Yes. No. Maybe? She herself has no clue.

“It’s not your fault.” It’s what she settles on since it’s true. Then, before she can stop it: “I already did plenty to ruin the evening, anyway, so. There wasn’t much left to ruin, I suppose.”

His yellow eyes grow wide, his mouth going slack.

“Listen, I suck at… giving that kinda advice, ya know. But if it’s ‘bout the party just tell me and I’ll, huh, come up with somethin’.”

Sumire wants to disappear. Wishes nothing more for the snow to pile up on her body and seclude her from the world forever – she gave the wrong impression, twice. God. She’s awful.

“Oh, no! Please don’t assume that.” She agitates her hands. “The party is lovely and you’ve all been so very kind to me. I’m just tired. That’s all.” It should be nearly 1 am so at least in that regard she should be justified. New year, a big party, late in the night: totally acceptable to be tired.

He nods. “Right. So, you waitin’ for your parents to pick you up?”

She stretches the best and most polite smile her split lower lip and low mood can allow for.

“No need to worry, I can absolutely manage it until Niijima-san and Okumura-san will head home, as we agreed.”

“Mkay.” He nods, again. His hands are still hidden in the pockets of his camo bomber, and his weight shifts from one leg to another like he just can’t stay still. He shrugs.

“Listen, I know it’s not my business but… is this because of gymnastics?”

She freezes in place. Her fingers run to torment the buttons closing her coat. She lowers her head.

“In all honesty… yes. It is.”

He kicks another chunk of snow, with the other foot.

“Okay… I’m prolly not even half as good as Akira when it comes to givin’ advice and all that but…” one hand comes out of the pocket, and stretches towards her. “From a fellow athlete, if you feel like sharin’, I can listen.”

One of her own hands comes out of the pocket as if by magnetic attraction. She shouldn’t insist on bringing the mood down but she’s also so tired of pretending. She misses the rush of warmth that, like endorphins that come after intense exercise, coursed through her when she shared some of that weight with Akira, who accepted to shoulder a tiny part of that.

She grabs Sakamoto’s hand and squeezes it, persuaded.

“Thank you.”

“Eh, it’s no big deal. So, whassup?”

She shifts some weight from foot to foot, making the snow under the boots squeak, and shrugs.

“A lot is going on right now, and I don’t know if I have what it gets to manage all of that.”

Sakamoto whistles. “That was easy.”

“I think it’s pretty simple, in the end. It all blows down to that.”

“Yeah. It’s a classic. Seen it happen a ton of times.” He scratches the back of his neck and lowers his gaze. “Happened to me, too.”

“It did?!”

“You bet it,” he grins. “Two years ago, after I decided I’d take rehab seriously, I started running again. I guess I still was pretty good at it since a university scouted me.”

“Oh, right! Senpai told me. They scouted me, too.”

“For real?! We’ll be colleagues then.”

“If they do admit me, it is,” she mutters.

A totally inoffensive punch lands on the side of her right arm but it’s enough to make her recoil in surprise.

“Nah, you’ll be fine. You rock at gymnastics and you always do your best. Far more than I ever did. If someone like me managed to get a sports scholarship, I’m sure you’ll do it, too.” He sighs, long and low. “But I get you. When the new track team supervisor told me I got scouted I was shittin’ in my pants. With my grades, I shouldn’t even have had the right to apply. But they were interested in me for my history since they offer an undergrad in Sports and Medical Science. Made a good case study, I guess.”

He shrugs. “Eh, whatever. I made it in the end. It was hell, though. The night before the entrance exams I haven’t slept a single minute. You’re aiming far, far higher than me, so it makes sense you’re scared, too.”

The muscle of her face tense into a grimace, and she shoves both her hands back into the pockets of her coat. Her heart thunders in her chest and makes pressure build in her ears.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m aiming too high.

She landed in Sofia with the best of intentions and the highest of moods – a thing so unusual for her that Coach Hiraguchi complimented her for the spirit and wished she would approach every meeting from then on that way.

Honestly: it was the first event to grant an Olympic qualification spot. Just for the first three Countries in the all-around final, sure, but a spot nonetheless. Everybody back home cheered so strongly for her that she didn’t want to let anybody down.

The opening ceremony was majestic, with loudspeakers blasting orchestral symphonies and a parade of all the attending Countries amongst flower arrangements and spectacles of light.

Coach Hiraguchi commented with a laugh: “If you keep your mouth hanging open, bugs will fly inside, you know.”

She sealed her lips and kept them closed shut but her eyes danced around, running through the Arena Armeec from corner to corner, and the excited buzz of the crowd transferred from the air straight under her skin.

Then, competitions began, and the pride she felt for her scores faded as quickly as it came. What are a bunch of barely-seventeens worth for against the girls out there performing a nineteen or a twenty as naturally as they walk down the street?

She didn’t even make it to the final.

She adjusts the glasses up on the bridge of her nose and sniffs. The others are surely wondering what she’s been doing out here for so long or if she’s feeling sick, if there was a bigger problem. She should thank Sakamoto and head back.

He eyes her with his head slightly tilted. “You all right?”

She forces out a nervous laugh to just get something out of her system. Tears blur her vision and she picks them up with her fingertips. The nails are smudged in black but hopefully, she didn’t do irreparable damage. “Sorry.”

Sakamoto blinks and waves his hands at her, half embarrassed and half panicked.

“Dude! Don’t even say that. Damn. Don’t be sorry – look, it’s normal. I get it. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna.”

“No, it’s alright. I appreciate the support, though.”

He turns to look at her, truly looking at her for the first time. What remains of his bright yellow hair shimmers under the light filtering through the door, and gets lost in into regrowing dark roots.

“I dunno what happened but I do know what it’s like when a defeat burns. Still, it doesn’t mean you can’t do better. Even from the bottom of the rankings, you can only go up.”

Oh. Uhm.

“That is deep,” she chuckles.

“Hey! I have my moments, okay?” He shakes his head. “But seriously. You can do it.”

His smile is contagious, and she’s grateful for it– it is indeed better than at the start of the night.

“The difference between me and the top gymnasts is abysmal, though. I know I shouldn’t compare myself to others but I can’t help it… and every time it happens, I mess up my own routines.”

“Other people are other people, though. You’re you.” He grins brightly, and Sumire can’t help but stretch a thin smile in response.

“You sound just like my coach.”

“But it’s true. I don’t know shit about rhythmic gymnastics but I’m sure if you can express yourself and prove what you can do, in your own way, you’ll be on top of the podium before you’ve even realized it.”

And it all comes to that in the end, doesn’t it? If it’s not Kasumi, it’s other gymnasts – she’s always looking at what she lacks instead of what she possesses because she has no clue in that regard, and every time she achieves something, like sand in an hourglass her confidence slips from her hands at the next impediment.

She lets silence fall between them – her eyes burn and she could fall asleep against this wall probably.

“So…” Sakamoto resumes, a little clumsy. “The Kokushikan University, huh. Have you already picked the class?”

“I was aiming for Sport and Physical Education. It’s… reassuring to study something so close to my experience. I feel like I’ll have to divide my attention less, that way. If that makes sense?”

He whistles. “We’ll be double colleagues then. I picked the same. You wanna be a coach, too?”

“I’m not thinking that further in the future, to be honest. I just want to be able to handle university and competition at the same time, and this was the best way to do it. I think.” She turns to look at him. “But I get that you have a clearer goal?”

“Yeah, it’s nothin’ as defined as you’re makin’ it sound but. I got the gist of it.” He waves. “With my injury, competing at your level’d be insane. Doctors told me it’ll prolly get worse if I shoot for the Olympics so I’m contempt with Nationals.” He beams. “But I don’t wanna give up on younger folks. I’ll work hard so what happened to me won’t happen to future athletes. Ain’t changing the world for sure, but it’s the best I can do.”

“I think it’s a pretty sweet thought.”

He startles back, red in the face.

“Look – you’re reading too much into this. It’s nothin’ great okay? You’re aiming for fucking Olympics, Sumi. You’re awesome. Jeez.” He clears his voice and flows back into a more casual stance. “Anyway. I know you’ve got a soft spot for Akira. It’s difficult not to, to be honest.”

OH.

It’s her turn now to startle and turn red in the face.

“That’s…!”

“But you can count on me, too.”He goes on as if it’s nothing special and offers his hand to her again. “From fellow athlete to fellow athlete. I’ve gotcha.”

For the third time that night, Leblanc’s bell chimes. A charming face with two blond and curly ponytails peeks from the door.

“Guys we’re about to take a big group selfie to send to my parents! They’re bragging about ‘Times Square countdown this evening’ so I’ll show them that we know how to party, too.”

Her watery blue eyes jump between the two of them and land on her.

“Everything alright, Sumi?”

“Absolutely! I know I missed a good portion of the celebrations but I needed some fresh air.” And despite the tiredness of her body, she truly would like to avoid making the others worry for her any longer.

“You’re still in time for the sweets!” she winks. “Hurry up, we have a photo to shoot.”

The door closes behind her back, and the alley reverts to the quiet of a festive night. Sumire glances at Sakamoto and his still stretched hand and grabs it once more.

“Thank you very much for the talk, Sakamoto-san. I appreciated it a lot.”

“No problem – hey no, what the hell dude. Go by my first name. How’re you still calling me that?”

“W-well…!”

He flashes her a cheeky grin. “I bet it’s the same for the others. We defeated a god together, damn it. That shit stays with you forever.”

“I guess so?” She rewinds the conversation and clears her voice. “Then, thank you, Ryuji.”

He raises her a fist. “Anytime.”

With an awkward move, she bumps her own fist into his.

It’s the stuffy air of a day of heavy rain that sets her nose wild and makes her sneeze herself awake.

She groans and throws the lower part of her body down the bed in search of a tissue. Even the carpet is gelid under her feet, a sting against her skin as if she instead had just stepped on tenterhooks. The storm is spattering against the window, and the heaviness of mid-January, charged with cold humidity, seeps past the fixtures. Sumire sets the curtains aside, but nothing more than a feeble glow timidly spreads through the room.

Her alarm clock goes off with the angry trill assigned to schooldays – the last time she set it on a Sunday was for her high school entrance exams, so it feels appropriate.

She holds the ‘disable’ button and silence fills the room once again.

She sniffs in the clammy atmosphere and slides her slippers on, drags her feet toward the desk, and unplugs the phone from the charger. There’s a message in the Phantom Thieves group chat:

Akira Kurusu: good luck with your entrance exams, sumi!

It’s so early that there are no responses yet.

The tip of her nose stays freezing but a little warmth pops up under her cheekbones. She sniffs and types a quick thank you and lays the phone back on the desk. She stretches, and a glimpse of color catches in the corner of her vision.

There’s a scarlet patch in all that winter greyness, framing her own face which is staring back through the mirror. Her hair’s a mess. She was so exhausted after the extra hours of practice yesterday that she skipped even the basic routine and dried them straight after the bath. It’ll get even worse with the weather outside, so she should at least bother detangling them.

She grabs the brush, scoots the mass on one shoulder, and starts brushing the ends. A stroke tickles her scalp, another one pinpricks just behind her ear. The very final portions are so split that without the proper care, they naturally tend to tangle.

“I should ask Ann for advice…” she mutters. She doesn’t seem to be overly obsessed with hair products and skincare but she should know a trick or two from modeling, right?

Sumire lets the lengths fall over her back and prepares to battle the upper portion, near the skin. Her hair’s so thin…

She gives a final stroke to her fringe and puts the brush back. With her fingers, she toys with the strands and glances at her reflection.

A mere two years ago, she was infiltrating Dr. Maruki’s Palace with the Thieves.

She holds her breath and moves her fingers back on her head, thumbs intertwining under the mass of long hair and closing them into a ponytail above her head.

She shivers. It’s so strange, having it styled like this.

Maybe it’s good. Maybe it means she’s used to being Sumire now, that she got so accustomed to her skin and her body and her life, after everything and despite everything, that she cannot see herself as imitating Kasumi ever again. Even in something as trivial as her hairstyle.

She lets the hair fall back in its place.

Her hand slowly raises to linger on her cheek and stops near the side of her nose.

She does miss being Violet, though.

Someone knocks on the door. “Sumire? Are you already awake?”

“Yes, mom!”

“Come on, I made a special breakfast for you today. Hurry up and get dressed.”

“Coming!”

She shoots a final glance at the mirror. There’s just Sumire.

I shouldn’t be thinking about Kasumi right now.

She has university entrance exams in two hours and an Aeon Club interview in ten days. She cannot allow the thought of Kasumi to distract her.

Kurusu Akira: hey sumi
Kurusu Akira: are you good with the exams? How did it go?

Sumire: Senpai!
Sumire: It went well! I think!
Sumire: I feel a bit like my brain is frying right now but I’m positive
Sumire: How is your day going?

Kurusu Akira: all good
Kurusu Akira: I’m heading to Kamakura today

Sumire: Oh, cool!
Sumire: Send me some pictures if you’re able
Sumire: Have fun ^_^

The saline breeze of Tokyo bay ruffles her fringe as Sumire climbs the staircase leading out of the Shin-Kiba metro station and steps into the pulsing heart of Koto City, just a pedestrian bridge walk away from Odaiba. She stops near a telephone cabin made of hardwood, just between the 777 and the main exit, and waits for Akira to arrive.

The wind blows stronger this near the sea, and she further raises the lapel of her coat. The gym bag is heavy on her right shoulder and the hoop cover is dangerously close to slipping off, but the solid weight is also a shield against the gusts for the right part of her torso.

A slender figure draped in grey emerges from the subway protecting his face with the palm of his hand to resist the push of the air.

“Hey, Sumi,” Akira waves a hand in her direction. Black jeans are paired with the trench coat – closed, for the first time since Sumire knows him – and under it, a burgundy sweater peeks out. It suits him very well.

“Senpai!” she waves him back with her free arm and smiles brightly. “Thank you very much for accompanying me today.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He offers her a hand. “Do you need help carrying those?”

She shakes her head and proceeds to cross the taxi parking, striding towards the main street.

“I’m good, thank you.”

Akira falls in steps to her left, and between his body and her bag, it’s a nice protection against the wind that rages wild on the open road leading to the parks of Tatsumi Island. She walks with one hand buried deep in the pocket of her coat and the other, gloved, clenching the handles of the bag and the hoop attached to them. If Senpai minds their elbows bumping together from time to time, he doesn’t show.

As much as she shouldn’t get accustomed to it… it’s truly pleasant.

“I know it’s not something I should ask now, but…” she lowers her gaze, shivering for the cold and something else. “Are you sure you’re okay with being here? It’s a Saturday after all…”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to,” he muses. It was a senseless question, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. “Besides, I don’t have anywhere else to be, not today. Not that this is the only reason I offered, of course.” He winks.

Blood flushes to her face. She got outsmarted in her own overthinking.

“Right.”

His gaze burns on her but she just keeps walking.

“How’re you doing? Today, and in general.”

They stop at a red light while cars speed up on the highway. She breathes in the icy air and stalls the answer. Not that she doesn’t want to give one but she’s the first one who doesn’t know how to.

“I’m good today.” She nods as if that makes it more true. “I’m just trying to stay focused on what I have to do and how I trained to do it. Coach Hiraguchi said the commission will also do a proper interview, so we practiced that part, too.”

“Okay.”

The light turns back to green, and a couple of people start crossing the street. On the sidewalk on the other side, a high fence and higher trees surround the park in which the illustrious Aeon Club is located.

She lets the second part of the question fall silent – thinking about the bigger picture is too much of a gamble against her mind. One task at a time: straightforward and manageable. The to-do of the upcoming months: a deep dive into overthinking.

She resumes the walk, and luckily Akira doesn’t pry.

“We’ve almost arrived. Just a couple more minutes. Coach Hiraguchi is probably already there.”

“I hope she likes me,” he says with a lot more drama than it’s needed.

“She did agree to you being here today, didn’t she?”

And she’s more terrified of the inquiring look and subtle questions she will get later on about their relationship – ‘relationship’ being the general term used to describe their friendly bond since, as much as Senpai might care about her, his heart is already with someone else, even if no one has heard about Akechi in two years. She doesn’t have the pretense of making him change his mind, nor does she’d ever be able to.

Not that she would mind of course but it’s that kind of wishful thinking she can’t allow herself to have without risking a second burning delusion like the one on that January afternoon. Better to be satisfied with what she has if it means she doesn’t end up making both of them uncomfortable…

“Hey, Sumire!”

Coach Hiraguchi stands in front of the gate, on the exact line dividing the cemented sidewalk from the tiled path leading to the Club. She scrutinizes her, from head to toe, the usual glance of assessment that’s more powerful than an x-ray, and her eyebrows draw together.

“Is something the matter? You’re almost scowling.”

Holding back a grimace and, she hopes, the blood from rushing to her face, she bows.

“Sorry Coach, I must’ve got lost in thought. Today’s recital has been on my mind a lot.”

Her coach’s expression softens, and she lays a hand on her free shoulder.

“I know you will do well. You trained hard. You managed the Nationals and the World Championships, this is no harder than those. Got it?”

Her body is quivering, but she nods. “Got it.”

“Good. And you…” she turns her attention to Akira. “I don’t believe we already met?”

“No ma’am,” he bows. “Kurusu Akira. I’ve been Sumire’s upperclassman for a year at Shujin High.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Sumire’s coach; I’ve been since she started her training.” She clicks her tongue. “So, you’re the Senpai she often talks about.”

A strangled yelp comes out from her. No way she can hide the red on her cheeks now.

“Coach!”

Coach Hiraguchi ignores her protests and goes on with the questioning, scanning Akira in search of more subtle clues.

“And tell me, Kurusu Akira, how’s your life been going?”

He puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans, flows into a non-casual casual stance, and the overconfidence of a performer she recognizes as Joker’s downs on his face.

“I’d say pretty well. I moved to Tokyo during the spring of last year for the start of my university courses. I’m a Literature student at Todai, but I’m beginning to lean more towards journalism.”

“You’re not from Tokyo? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“A bit souther,” he says with a smile. “Matsuzaki, Shizuoka prefecture.”

“Oh, one of Japan’s most beautiful cities! You’re lucky. How come you ended up in Shujin for a year?”

Sumire sweats cold. Akira doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Family reasons,” he shrugs. “An old acquaintance lives here.”

“I see…” she mumbles, pondering. “Well, you seem a good guy.”

Sumire exhales a relieved sigh. Then it catches up to her that the whole conversation felt like an official family meeting and oh god no.

She swallows down a groan and says through gritted teeth: “Shall we get going?”

“Absolutely.” Coach Hiraugchi turns to her as they walk. “You’ll get changed and then meet the Club’s board directly on the floor. First, you’ll perform all your four routines, then they will move on to the interview. They will take some time to deliberate but you will have your verdict today. All right?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Have you decided which apparatus order you’ll perform with?”

“I’ll go with the ball first, then hoop, then clubs, and finally the ribbon.”

Coach Hiraguchu smiles, pleased. “Leaving the best for last, huh? Can’t say I disapprove.” She gestures to Senpai. “If someone asks, you’re with me. Am I clear?”

“Clear as water, ma’am.”

“Good. I like you.”

They reach the Club’s main entrance: a wall of glass sliding doors of recent making – a much more futuristic look than the severe bricks she’s accustomed to with her current club. A receptionist clad in dark navy checks them in and directs her to the guest’s changing room. Which is a thing, apparently. To have rooms for guests separated from the athletes’ ones.

She lays her chunky gym bag on the wooden bench, the former clanks and the latter doesn’t even squeak. The only sound humming through the air is the spinning of air vents, faint and far away and a universe apart from the chaotic chatter and frenzied strolling of the gym she’s known for three years now. She wonders if it’s because of the early hour on a Saturday, or if registered athletes train in a completely different area.

She hangs her coat, scarf, and sweater, and folds her leggings neatly beside the bag. From the partition to the left, she pushes colorful fabrics aside and picks up an iridescent white leotard, with sparkling silver beads tracing the hem of the lycra along her collarbones and back until her shoulder blades. The sleeves are as transparent as they can get, with additional jewelry embroidered on them.

She clutches it, her fingers trembling slightly. It’s one of the most flashy leotards she’s ever owned and maybe it’s a bit too much for her, too extra, but Coach Hiraguchi was beaming when she wore the basic sample of the model the maker sent them before customizing it, that Sumire lacked the heart of saying no.

She slowly slips into it, stiff like a bather entering the cold sea with currents skimming the body parts that aren’t still accustomed to the temperature. In front of the mirror, she twists and turns, making the mini half gown twirl around her thigs and up to her hips.

It does suit her, she supposes. In a certain way. Maybe it’s the contrast between the hair and the glowing white that bears all the colors of the rainbow in its reflections.

She groups portions of air around her fingers and loops them into a bun, then twists with more strength to form a solid chignon. She fixes everything in place with pin after pin and adds a scrunchie of the same fabric as the leotard around the hairdo. From her bag, she fishes for a pair of slippers and shoots a final glance into the mirror.

Her form is lithe but with broader shoulders than two years ago, the hint of curves where there were only bones and muscles, forms covered in her flashiest leotard. She picks at strands of her fringe and glares at her reflection. Different from two years ago yet still lacking something.

Groaning faintly, Sumire does a final pivot and grabs the silver ball from her bag. She has to ban the self-loathing out of her mind.

So, she closes her eyes and focuses on her public.

No, not the judging board.

She stretches her lips in a smile: trembling, meager, unconvinced. But a smile, nonetheless.

Watch this, Senpai. It’s showtime.

The phone rings from the other side; no one is picking up the call. Sumire moves it away from her ear and glances at the screen: it’s almost midday, and dad should be already home from the morning slot of the news.

In front of her, both Coach Hiraguchi and Akira are looking at her with various degrees of worry.

She raises the ringing phone back to her ear. Gusts of wind bring forth the scent of freshly cut grass from the park and sea salt from the port of Tatsumi Island.

The rings stop.

“Hello, Sumire?”

“Dad? Are you home?”

“Not yet sadly, we had a last-minute meeting with production for a new format they wanted to pitch. I should still be able to make it for lunch, though.”

“That’s great!”

“…speaking of great. How did the meeting with the Aeon Club go?”

She bites her lower lip, frowning. “Well, it wasn’t a unanimous decision—”

Akira sighs heavily. Coach Hiraguchi shakes her head. Sumire mouths ‘I’m barely telling the truth!’

She clears her voice. “I was saying, it wasn’t unanimous, but I passed.”

“Hey, that’s wonderful Sumi! We have to celebrate today, you deserve it.”

A hole opens in her stomach – she doesn’t think convincing two out of five people who in turn convinced a third to gain a majority is an achievement worth partying over. If anything, it’s the confirmation that she’s still miles away from her goal.

Coach Hiraguchi is still eyeing her, so she pulls her lips upward and forces the pitch in her voice.

“Thank you, dad. From March onwards, I’ll be an official athlete of the Aeon Club!”

She probably isn’t that good at fake enthusiasm but hopefully, it’s not showing through the telephone.

“Good,” dad hums. “Then it’s on you to pick what you want to do. It’ll be a double present for today and your birthday.”

“Oh… I’ll choose something big, then.”

“Must I be scared?” he laughs. “I almost miss the times when a little ice cream was enough to celebrate. You’ve grown so much…”

The hole in her stomach collapses and becomes a chasm. Out of breath, she says:

“Yeah… I’m calling mom now. To update her, too.”

“All right. I’ll see you two for lunch then. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She pockets her phone and adjusts the bag on her shoulder. Coach Hiraguchi crosses her arms and flattens her lips into a thin line.

“I’m not going to scold you if that is what you fear. But if you care to accept a piece of advice from your coach: try to enjoy stretched victories as much as absolute victories. There will be enough time in the coming weeks to analyze the events of today.”

Sumire nods. Her body is tired but her soul is drained and she barely musters up the strength to respond.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“I’ll see you on Monday, then.” She warms a little, lips curling up. “Don’t beat yourself too hard, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Coach Hiraguchi waves her hand at them both and walks out the main gate of the park.

With a knot blocking her throat, Sumire lets her eyelids slip down. Sunlight filters through the strata of skin and turns everything a bloody shade of orange. The replay of her performance slides like the keyframe of a film: precise but soulless, correct but not outstanding – and mostly, not difficult enough to truly leave a mark.

She chose to lower the difficulty to gain in execution, as per usual. The new implementations still needed testing and she wouldn’t have been able to perform them under pressure.

Either way, it would’ve ended poorly.

She grimaces. It’d be nice to have another half-hug from Akira but she has no right to ask for one. So, she settles for the second-best thing she can think of to smother the bitterness.

“Senpai…”

Her voice wavers, and she swallows dry.

“Are you up for an ice cream?”

Chapter Text

Sumire rests the tubular case with her diploma on a forgotten desk, her fingers lingering on the cold surface with a feather-light touch. The buzz of Shujin’s ventilation system whirs through the rooftop, as loud as that lonely afternoon two years ago, at the start of her second year. Haru’s pots are empty now, wiped clean of leftover soil and carrots and tomatoes, and neatly stacked one atop the other near a pile of broken chairs.

It should be a desolate view but it still manages to spread warmth in her chest.

She unlocks her phone and shoots a picture of the sight, the shutter clicking loudly. All things considered, it was a decent spot to pause from the overwhelming flow of things even if only for thirty minutes.

The heavy emergency door squeaks on its hinges, and she turns to meet her visitor: Akira waves back a hand to her and silently walks through the rooftop. His curls and trench swish in the air, never out of charm.

“Saying your last goodbyes?”

She flashes her phone to him. “More like shooting them.”

He leans against the edge of the desk with his lower back, shoulders hunched forward and hands in the pockets of his pants, and it’s so natural a sight, Sumire wishes she could capture that, too, without being noticed.

“Feels like a lifetime ago since I’ve last been here. This was the Thieves’ first hideout, you know. We used to meet here every time we needed to discuss matters about Kamoshida’s Palace.”

She giggles. “I do recall some of the professors lamenting that the door on top of the staircase was always open, no matter how many times the janitor locked it.”

“Guilty as charged,” he smirks. “Mona taught me a few tricks.”

“What happened next?”

He shrugs. “Many things. Makoto busted us, then Yusuke joined the team… it wasn’t practical anymore to meet up here.”

“Right.”

“Futaba told me you used to visit the rooftop a lot, too.”

Sumire picks up her diploma from the desk and hops in its place instead, legs dangling in the void. She lightly kicks the air with her scarlet shoes, careful not to brush her thigh with Senpai’s.

“I did. After the group parted ways, I had no one to hang out with.” She clenches the cardboard tube – it might be a loser’s confession to say, but it’s merely the truth. “I guess no one’s ever been a fan of mine in this school.”

“You could say being an outcast is a must-have to be a Phantom Thief.”

She frowns. She never considered herself to be truly, fully, 100% part of the group back then and even now the label feels like a pair of slippers that don’t quite match her foot size. Must be the mismatch of shared experiences.

She appreciates the thought, though.

“I guess that’s true.”

Without tearing his gaze from the skyline of Aoyama, he asks:

“How’re you doing, by the way?”

Cold shivers prick at her spine. She strangles the poor diploma between sweaty palms.

She didn’t mean to end up crying in front of that ice cream after the recital, nor did she want to make him worry this much. She weighs the options between being completely honest and omitting some of the details not to add gasoline to the fire.

She settles on the simplest fact:

“Better than the last time we met.” And she doesn’t want to bring the mood down, not today and not with him again, so she turns to Akira and flashes a smile that might not be the happiest one but she hopes it’s kind enough to feel honest. “Thank you for asking.”

He smiles back and the pit of her stomach gives a twitch in her abdomen.

“Anytime.”

Sumire nips at her lower lip. She’d rather not add gymnastics into the conversation over and over again… but maybe there’s something else in her mind that’d be appropriate sharing.

“On Monday I will start at the Kokushikan University.”

“Scared?”

“I’m terrified, to be honest. I don’t know what to expect.”

“Well, the university is… different. I don’t know how it’ll be for you, but if you survived three years of Shujin and if Ryuji’s managing with the scholarship, I have no doubt you can do it, too.”

She nods and, with blush spreading on her cheeks, she moves strands of fringe out of her eyelashes. It’s astounding how much faith Senpai has in her, so much more than she herself does. She shouldn’t fall back into the old habit of relying on him to carry her boulders… but it’s comforting to know there’s one person who saw so many ugly moments of her life and still believes in her potential.

“Thank you. I truly appreciate it.”

The wind of March blows stronger and colder than April’s did on that day, carrying the fresh scent of clean air through the city, and it prompts goosebumps on her legs and makes a mess of her half-ponytail. Her eyes itch, from the gusts and contact lenses and everything else, a menace for her hard-worked makeup.

She clears her voice.

“To think I have not only your support but everyone else’s as well… it warms my heart.”

“Yeah, about that…” he scratches the back of his neck. “There’s a party theoretically scheduled to happen tomorrow evening. It’s supposed to be a birthday-graduation surprise thing. Ann and Morgana’s idea. But today Haru brought up your training schedule, so I’ve been sent out to gather intel. So…” He places an index finger graciously on his lips.

She blinks, gulps, and adjusts a strand of hair back behind her ear. They thought of throwing her a surprise party. No one ever went that far, not even her parents.

“That sounds lovely. And I am free tomorrow.” She flashes him a wider smile. “I’ll perform the best surprised-face ever!”

“Speaking of surprises…” he rummages in the outer pockets of his trench. “I have something for you.”

He picks out a paper package no bigger than a paper tissue and a silvery metal box with a red ribbon placed on top. With a smile so small but so tender it melts her guts to puddle, he hands them to her.

“Happy birthday, Sumi.”

She grabs the packets with shaking fingers, like an earthquake assaulting her body. The beating of her heart and the pressure in her ears add up to a rumble of thunder that tops the combination of wind and vents accounting for all the noise on the rooftop.

She wets her lips, throat dry.

“Senpai, you shouldn’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then just open them.”

She tears the paper of the smaller one, and a silken handle comes out. She pulls the present out of the wrapping: a blue and white omamori, with the logo of Tokyo 2020 and the official gymnastics pictogram embroidered on the fabric.

“It’s beautiful…”

Between thumb and index, he twists a curl of his fringe. “A friend of mine who’s practical with Kanda shrine rituals explained to me that you can return to the temple and burn it once it served its purpose. So, let’s hope you won’t need it anymore in a year and a half.”

“I’ll hang it to my new gym bag first thing as I come home!” She puts both the omamori and her diploma inside the schoolbag. “Thank you very much. I’ll open the second box, then.”

She pulls one of the ribbon’s ends and untangles the knot. Senpai’s body stiffens beside her – what could ever be inside this tiny case for him to be so tense?

She uncaps it.

Among white flimsy paper, a pitch-black stripe of silk is neatly rolled on itself. It’s long but thin, the kind she used to tie her hair up with when she still wore it as a ponytail.

Beside it, there’s a set of equally dark bobby pins and hair clips… and one of them has a tiny reproduction of Violet’s mask on it.

She gapes. Her chest tightens, with her diaphragm contracting and relaxing yet no air reaching her lungs.

“Senpai…”

“I thought of a leotard or an apparatus at first but those would’ve required a knowledge of the regulations that’s far beyond my capabilities. So, I asked Yusuke to design these.” His eyes take up the whole of her focus, liquid grey shifting in his pupil like the clouds that travel fast in the sky above them. “When you perform, there’s something in you that shifts that has me every time. I don’t know what it is but I can’t stop admiring you.” The edge of his lips turns up, just a fraction, but it’s enough to make her shiver. “With that white leotard, you were a sight for sore eyes. If I picture you in black… God help me.”

She retreats, struggling to breathe. It's too much.

She can’t make assumptions. She doesn’t dare to hope. But the confusion of two years ago strikes back and this time, she makes no effort to swallow it. She can’t excuse herself and walk away, not again.

Like an itch that needs scratching, the scab of a wound that never completely healed, one single question rolls on her tongue and is out before she can modulate it:

“Why?”

There’s no rooftop anymore, no Shujin; they’re not in Aoyama but rather into a side alley of Setagaya, with the cold of a January afternoon seeping through the window fixtures of Leblanc and the comfortable spice of curry and coffee mingling in that signature scent.

Except it is all stemming from Akira, who’s leaning breaths away from her face.

“I already said you’re an unexpectedly good observer.”

She shakes her head. There’s not a single point of contact between them but his warmth, his pulse, everything draws her closer to his body. And those eyes, they hold a gaze a small but vocal part of her dares to label revering. It’s not a preoccupied one, not anymore. And as his lips curl up in a challenging smirk, the hint of a tease traces the last line that connects all the dots.

Oh, she’s been so naïve.

Sumire puts the metal box down on the desk, heart swollen and skin ablaze.

“I think you could be quite deceiving, Akira.”

It’s the first time she calls him by his first name only.

As if stung by an unpredicted blow of her rapier, there’s a hitch in his breath and a start in his shoulders and Sumire seizes the moment to grab the lapel of his trench. She clenches the fabric tight and squints her eyes shut tighter.

And she kisses him.

It’s an open touch, one that is soft and smells nice but spikes a jolt on her skin like she’s been bitten. Her head floats, dizziness making her conscience waver, and as much as she’s perfectly sitting, the entire world spins.

She backs off the bare minimum to allow her lungs some fresh air but his breath still tickles her nose.

“I…” she swallows, dry. Her voice is but a whisper. “I don’t have the words to express how happy I am right now but truly, I don’t understand.”

Akira just… shrugs. “Does it really come as a surprise? I thought I left plenty of tells in the past two years.”

She shakes her head. It can’t be that long.

“But you and Akechi—”

“Oh, he knew. He’d known since Maruki kidnapped you, the first time the three of us visited his Palace. I guess I haven’t exactly been subtle about it. Not for someone as sharp as him, at least.” He laughs, the most nervously Sumire ever heard him. “You know I said he convinced me not to take the deal?”

She nods. He goes on.

“One of the arguments was that if I accepted Maruki’s offering, you’d turn back to being Kasumi. That you’d lose all your memories as Sumire. How could I possibly had done that to you?”

She covers her mouth with both hands.

“I… that…”

“I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad you’re Sumire.”

Under his gaze, she smoothens the crinkles on her skirt. Leans down to put the hair accessories in her bag, too. Straightens her back to appear as fierce as she gets when she walks under the spotlight on the floor. Like the fog that clears with the coming of the breeze, the March wind sheds new light on the memory of that day.

“You didn’t turn me down.” She states, bewildered, struck by her own misunderstanding. “You said it wasn’t the moment to give me an answer.”

He grins. “I chose my words very carefully.”

Subtle. And so very like him.

“You also said you appreciated my feelings towards you.”

He nudges her with his shoulder.

“I stand by what I just stated about my carefulness.” His smile reaches up to his eyes, glinting. “My heart was split in half. Still is.”

She frowns. “What do you mean—”

The emergency door squeaks, harder than before, from a stronger push. It opens with stuttered movements, revealing the shadows that lurk in the lobby before the stairs leading down.

From the dark and into the light, Goro Akechi steps forward.

“There you are. Must you have made me search the whole school?”

“Akechi-san?!”

He’s wearing a dark brown wool coat, shorter than the trench she remembers and also tracing his border shoulders much better. Under it, peeks a musk-hued pullover and a simple white shirt. His hair is tucked in the collar, maybe longer than it was back then.

He puts a hand on his hips and smirks with just a hint of teeth.

“In the flesh.”

Akira lays his chin on her shoulder and puffs of his breath hotly tickle at her ear.

“Congrats on your graduation, Sumi.”

She jolts.

“You knew it?!”

Steam rises from the cup of coffee and it brings up the earthy and toasted scent of the drink, and the lightbulbs of Leblanc reflect onto the liquid, scattered by concentrical little waves.

Sumire takes her first sip, bitter and scorchingly hot, nearly burning her tongue.

She shifts her weight onto the cushion of the barstool, letting her feet dangle away from the footrest.

“Delicious as always,” she muses. “I missed it.”

Akira – her now-boyfriend, holy goddess – flashes her a grin, and turns to Akechi – her boyfriend’s… boyfriend? Apparently? – on her right. Just the thought heats her blood to freshly brewed coffee level.

Akechi takes a sip of his own. “Agreed. Good as I recall it.” He lays his chin in the palm of his hands, taking in his surroundings. He’s still wearing gloves, and his hair indeed got longer – it can probably be tied into a short ponytail or a tiny loose bun.

“I’m impressed… this place hasn’t changed a bit. Not that I mind. I’ve always liked its quiet atmosphere and its quality coffee.”

 “And its otherworldly charming barista.” Akira winks.

“Its otherworldly charming barista could use some manners and inform people of his position before breaking into forbidden school property during a graduation ceremony and disappearing for nearly an hour.”

Sumire cringes in her place, air suddenly hotter than before.

“That’s my fault. I was the one who asked to meet on the rooftop.”

Akechi eyes her, studying her like he’s only truly looking at her now for the first time. His russet gaze scans her with not an attempt at discretion, and she can only hope he’s not disappointed by what he finds.

“You’re still wearing your hair down.” He says it with no judgment or accusation, rather he states it as a simple fact, a perfectly normal thing to comment about a person he has not seen for more than two years and with whom he – oh my god – shares a boyfriend.

A hand runs to the ribbon securing a few strands of her hair into a half ponytail to the top of her head, barely enough to leave her ears naked.

“You seem surprised,” she speaks softly.

“Maybe I underestimated you.” He lifts the cup to his lips, curled up into a pleased smirk. “Congratulation for entering the National Senior Team, by the way.”

She turns to Akira. “You told him?”

“I saw it,” Akechi corrects. “Your exhibition has been broadcasted on the news, albeit on minor channels. I’m no expert in gymnastics, but it was captivating.”

“It was,” Akira confirms.

‘You were a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. God. It still reduces her stomach to a knot and her brain into a puddle.

“Thanks,” she whispers, head down, and drowns the embarrassment with another sip of coffee.

A comfortable silence falls between them, accompanied by the gurgling of boiling water and the faint voices of lively Yongen-Jaya coming from the outside. She closes her eyes and lets the bitterness and the spice overtake her senses, allowing her mind to detach from everything else. Serene, at easy. Cozy.

It’s almost whatever day of two years ago, back when the Thieves used to meet in the café before heading to the Metaverse. She was always seated here, third stool, exactly in the middle of the six-row, often eating a good plate of curry with rice – she had to be prepared for the battles to come, after all.

The temptation to actively miss those days is strong… but settling on nostalgia is good enough. She wasn’t the person she is now, everything felt far scarier, and she didn’t have a boyfriend. Or a boyfriend’s boyfriend.

Speaking of…

She lays down her cup with a clink that isn’t loud per se but it does break the quiet still lingering through the café. Turning to her right, second seat nearest the entrance, she asks:

“I don’t mean to pry but… where have you been?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Learning to be more straightforward, I see.”

“Sorry! I didn’t intend to… I mean if you don’t want—”

“On the contrary,” he says with the air of the cat playing with the mouse. “I think you have a certain right to know what’s been going on behind the scene. Given our… arrangement.”

‘Arrangement’. She can’t help but tinily pout.

He doesn’t seem displeased or annoyed but his true opinion on the situation, Sumire can’t begin to grasp – if Akira can be difficult to read, Akechi is an impossible equation to her.

He sips some more coffee and glances at Akira.

“You still haven’t told her anything yet?”

He shrugs. “We had a deal. Not a word with the Thieves.”

Akechi hums as if taken aback by the response. “… I see.”

Go figure if he purposefully left that loophole to allow for a preemptive explanation, not considering her a true member of the Phantom Thieves either, or if he didn’t account for her at all. She knits her brows – it’d be interesting to know for how long this thing between them has been going on but straightforwardness or not, that seems a truly impolite question to ask so she restrains herself.

“He did tell me what happened the night before we fought Dr. Maruki, though.”

Akechi nearly chokes on the coffee, coughing hard in his leather-clad hand.

“Just the Maruki part,” Akira helpfully provides with the smirk of someone who’s having the best time of his life.

Sumire glances between the two of them. Is she missing something, or…?

Oh.

“Just the Maruki part!” she echoes, shaking her hands in front of her, blood rushing to her cheeks and the tips of her ears. She wants to disappear. Vanish like the steam evaporating from what’s left of the coffee.

Akechi loosens the collar of his shirt and clears his voice.

“Anyway. As I was saying, I wouldn’t have guessed he kept you completely in the dark. But if you at least know what Maruki’s last cheap shot was, I’ll leave that out of the recollection.”

Sumire turns to Akira, who’s smiling like a virtuous angel, a picture of innocence.

“He also told me he saw you at the station the day he went back home, right before departing.”

“He saw me because I indeed was there. Not that it was my intention to be noticed, of course.” He admits it through gritted teeth. “I wasn't even supposed to be there in the first place.”

“So… what happened after the Palace collapsed, exactly? Neither Senpai nor you were there with the rest of us.”

Akechi tilts his chin at Akira. “Things reverted as they should’ve been, so he was sent in juvenile, as I’m sure you already know. Regarding myself…” he clenches the cup tighter, to the point of leather creaking. “I woke up on a side alley near the Diet Building, not too far from the metro. No damage taken except for my appearance.” His mouth warps downward. “My only theory is that I survived just because the cognition wasn’t using a real weapon – so when the Palace collapsed and I entered reality back, the effect of the hit erased with it.”

Sumire raises her index but Akechi counters her question.

“I don’t know how much time passed from our confrontation in that room to Shido’s change of heart but it mustn’t have been more than two days.”

“24 hours,” Akira confirms.

“I’ve been out of commission for a while, at first. Try searching up ‘near-death experience’, it could prove enlightening.” He grimaces. “I woke up in pain like I never felt in my life, with no healing items nor spells, and I couldn’t even manage to slither out of that room – at least, as much as I was locked in, it also meant potential threats were locked out. But I was truly miserable. If they didn’t erase the Palace, I would surely have ended the suffering myself.”

He says that with a neutral tone and a firm gaze lost in the coffee beans jars stacked on the shelves before him. Sumire’s heart clenches nonetheless.

“I’m… truly sorry. It must’ve been horrible.”

Akechi glares at her, his lips a thin line, but whatever reprimand he had on his tongue, it doesn’t come out. He just sighs.

“All that matters is that I was kicked out of the Metaverse on February 3^rd with the look of a person who hasn’t been part of society for a month and a half.” He stretches a sneer on his lips. “Some homeless person with a shelter under a bridge probably had more in their hand than me. Surely, they smelled more nicely.”

He downs the last drops of coffee.

“With Shido gone, I had no access to money or a phone, and with the conspiration still running even if grandly severed, I didn’t want to risk going back to my apartment. So, I threw away the keys, formatted the phone, sold it battery-dead to some shady beggar-merchant, and used the money to buy myself a bath, a change of clothes, and a train ticket away from Tokyo.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t even sure my ID would still be considered valid but it was worth the risk. Apparently, it is. Even if everyone seemed to have forgotten about me.”

Sumire nods. “So that’s when…?”

He shakes his head. “No. All of this happened within the first 5 days of February. Considering my situation and the fact that I had nowhere else to go… I went back to my mother’s hometown. There’s a temple there with a hot spring complex that also serves as a shelter for people in need. They know me very well since my mother used to go there quite often. I hid for a while, making myself as useful as I could in exchange for a roof and daily meals.”

Sumire, too, sips the last of her coffee. She envies him. While she was dealing with her stupid hiatus and inferiority complex, Akechi was fighting for his life with nothing but his willpower and a few thousand yen at best.

She frowns. There’s no way he could’ve been able to book the bullet trains with that much money, nor the long-distance ones. So, the place he spoke about must be somewhere not too far away from Tokyo.

Akira did visit Kamakura on the day of her entrance exams. She wonders…

Well, no use asking that now. It seems a rather private topic, too. She moves to her second more pressing question:

“Then why did you come back to Tokyo?”

Akechi smirks at Akira. “To help him get out of juvenile.”

“Everyone’s effort helped me get out of juvie,” he protests.

“Who do you think made the name of Shido’s victim so easy to find? It didn’t show up on your official record but it did come up to the private meetings by word of mouth. I had no more ties with the police and there was no need to make myself known but I am capable of leaving a trail.” He crosses his legs under the desk and mirrors the movement with his arms. “Once the information landed on Sae’s desk, she only had to verify it and contact the woman.”

“Wow…” Sumire can’t help but let that bit of admiration slip from her lips. He sure is amazing, doing all that alone, while keeping under the radars – it’s no wonder why Senpai is so fond of him.

They’re practically made for each other.

She’s always known that but can’t stop the thought from forming over and over again now that they’ve been reunited.

“And then?” she asks like this is a tale told before a fire camp and she needs to know how it goes forth.

Akechi blinks as if startled by having someone so adamant about listening to what he has to say who’s also not a police officer. He clears his voice.

“Then I left Tokyo again. That’s the day Akira saw me at the station. I was accompanied by three other men, who were effectively in charge of securing no one from the conspiracy would… prevent my departure, so to speak. But this is a whole other piece of the story—”

“Oh no,” Akira kicks in, “don’t you dare omit how you met Shirogane.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to the current situation.”

“It’s relevant,” he spells, not quite angry but surely annoyed. “Because in two days you’ll be out of town again for God knows how long and she has the right to know why.”

Sumire gulps, stunned by the volley of information. She leans closer to Akechi, shooting him a quizzical glance.

“Do you mean the famous…?”

He sighs. “First Detective Prince of Japan, yes. That Naoto Shirogane.”

What the hell.

“What the…” she chokes before she can say it out loud. She coughs the embarrassment away and asks: “How?”

“Shirogane contacted me while I was living in the shelter. ‘Knew about me through some connections’, they said.” He shrugs, but the corners of his lips stay down as if he wasn’t pleased by the fact. “They informed me that, albeit having its pulsing heart in Tokyo and its head in Shido, the conspiracy was becoming a problem all over Japan, therefore they could help some ‘inside job’ to dismantle it. How Shirogane knew that much about me it’s still beyond my comprehension.”

“So, you accepted?”

“Not lightheartedly. Working for someone other than myself again meant once more compromising on my freedom to reach a greater goal.” He taps the wooden counter with his index, swinging his foot. “I didn’t have that many choices, though. It took some insisting on their part that, to be honest, I didn’t think would have happened but, in the end, I accepted. They asked that I moved to Inaba immediately, and in return, I asked that they escorted me to Tokyo first to settle some business. We bargained a lot but managed to come to an agreement. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Wow…” she breathes out, again. “So you’re working with the true Detective Prince… oh! Sorry!”

She covers her mouth with both palms but Akechi waves his hand in dismissal.

“Don’t worry. You’re technically correct – I didn’t deserve that title, to begin with. At least I can aim to be a real detective now, and without the TV appearances.” He smirks. “Not that I was faking the cunning intuition, mind you. I’m sure your friends can confirm that.”

She nervously laughs – it’s probably a sarcastic comment since she doubts it would, in fact, be productive to bring the topic to their attention.

She turns to Akira. “I have one last question.” She leans on the edge of the stool and moves her index between the two of them.

“When?”

Akira points toward his own face with the air of a saint. “You mean the relationship or…?”

“She means the reunion,” Akechi hisses. Then, turning to her: “The beginning of last year, during winter break. At the jazz club.”

“Outside of the jazz club,” Akira points out. “You fled so fast I barely had the time to recognize you.”

“Yes, what a tragic situation.”

Akira snorts and speaks to her. “I quite literally tackled him on the alley and forced him to talk. It’s been a back and forth for a year until this February.” He smiles to himself, a self-satisfied one. “I finally managed to convince him to stay.”

“Just up till your graduation. Because he’s a hopeless sentimental,” Akechi adds with a scowl. “As he was saying, I’m heading back to Inaba in two days.”

Her chest tightens at that – they only just met and he’s already about to leave.

“For how long?” She keeps her voice steady, but wouldn’t mind if the regret shows.

Akechi tightens his jaw, uncharacteristically unsure of how to respond.

“I can’t say,” it’s what he settles on. “It could be a week or it could be six months. With the kind of work I have to do, I can never know for sure. Besides…” he rolls his eyes. “Shirogane is very adamant about learning by doing, field experience, and being present in the studio. They created a nice little agency in that god-forgotten city.”

She nods. “Understood. Thank you for filling me in on… all that.” She turns to him wearing a bright smile on her lips. “And I appreciate that you took the time to stop by for my graduation.”

“Someone insisted.”

Sumire chuckles. If he had truly minded, there wouldn’t be a single soul in this dimension or the cognitive one able to convince him.

Akira eyes her. “Are you angry?”

She circles her empty and now cold cup with her fingers. Is she?

It would surely have been nice to know about it in advance – if anything else for the sake of being close to Akira and looking after him all this time. He’s always been there for her when she was struggling, but no matter her goodwill, she couldn’t have done the same, because she knew nothing.

Maybe she’s a little jealous, too.

She’s also aware that this is the norm with Akechi, and that he had more than sound reasons for not wanting his presence to be known by others.

In the end, she shakes her head.

“No, I’m not angry. Truly, I’m not. But I don’t like not being able to support you.”

Akira lowers his gaze, fingers twisting strands of his fringe. “Oh don’t worry, you did plenty.”

It doesn’t feel like mere courtesy of him to say so, but deep in her heart, she doesn’t feel that that is true.

“I didn’t. Please talk to me the next time. You don’t have to shoulder everything by yourself.”

Akira silently nods. Akechi as much silently smiles to himself, seemingly pleased – and maybe he truly is.

Sumire traces the shape of her empty cup with the pads of her index and can’t contain the smile that splays on her lips. It sure wasn’t the graduation day she expected, but she doubts she could’ve asked for anything better than this.

Chapter Text

A silent but powerful yawn fights its way up through her chest, and Sumire barely manages to cover her mouth with the palm of her hand – it’s so long it makes her eyelashes moist.

She presses the switch of Mr. Sakura’s old car’s window and lets the chilly breeze of September Tokyo at dawn smack her face and mingle with the residual smell of cigarettes and the lingering Leblanc spice that he is so prone to spread to objects and other people. It does nothing to satiate her need for a good night’s sleep but it does wonders for the dizziness. She slouches on the tarnished seat, too small to truly reach the headrest anyway.

Building after building, the city flows past outside the car, deserted; too early even for the early commuters. No sun rays reflect on the glass of skyscrapers: just dirty white clouds with a faint orange hue near the horizon line.

A shiver runs down her spine.

She shoots a side glance at Akira, who turns back to focus on the road and pretends he wasn’t looking.

“Stop staring,” she chides with no bite at all. “You heard Mr.Sakura about being careful.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like it’s the first time I borrow his car.”

Uh. Oh. It definitely seemed the case, with the way he lectured them about speed limits, infractions, and ‘to have it back by the time Leblanc opens, am I clear?’

“Is it not?”

“If we’re not counting that time I gave him a ride home because he got stuck in a matsuri crowd and Futaba ended up panicking, this is the third.”

She shifts on the seat to position herself more properly almost as if scrutinized and judged by the car’s owner. She nibs at her lower lip.

“It’s still not much. I’m sorry for causing you trouble…”

He chuckles. “I won’t hide the fact that you’re incredibly lucky. Call it girlfriend privilege.” He most certainly doesn’t look at the road and winks at her which brings the blood on her cheeks to boiling temperature. “Sojiro has a big soft spot for you.” He shrugs. “He also has a no-guys-on-the-passenger-seat policy.”

She lays her hands on her lap and fiddles with the lower end of the crimson red zipper of her very white, very soft, very official new Japanese National Team hoodie.

“I didn’t mean just the car ride, by the way.”

Akira frowns but keeps his gaze locked onward.

“You didn’t intrude or anything of the sort if that’s what you’re about to say. Just because I can’t do things in your stead or make decisions for you, it doesn’t mean I can’t support you in other ways.”

She clenches her fists. Calling him late in the evening because she couldn’t get any sleep and stumbling into Leblanc half an hour later with a suitcase, a gym bag, and her hoop case definitely counts as ‘intruding’. But the air in her house was starting to get the best of her, between the upcoming World Championships driving her crazy and the door of Kasumi’s old room just across the corridor haunting her every time she went somewhere to grab an extra towel or a clean and dried-up legging to put in the suitcase.

The scent of the café was as soothing as chamomile, even distorted by the sting of bleach and wood oil from the end-of-day cleaning.

The tight hug Akira gave her was also its special brand of soothing.

The way he kissed her, up in the attic, nestled on his bed, and the way they so effortlessly fell on each other…

She quivers, redder in the face than the zipper of her sweater. A retort dances on her tongue, daring her to spit it out.

“If anything…” Her voice is steady but the pitch is higher.  “One could say you were the one who intruded.”

Akira sputters and chuckles and God she wants to throw her whole body out of this car and into a freefall down Tokyo’s speedway.

“Look at you, making dirty jokes. I taught you well.”

Her heart is beating like a hail of bullets from Violet’s rifle but she musters up what she can gather of Violet’s boldness and stretches a tentative smirk.

“You’re a bad influence on me, Senpai.”

“Please don’t tell your coach, she still thinks I’m an okay guy.”

“I think that as far as you’re not distracting me from the sport, she’s okay with you.”

He plays up a groan. “Damn. And here I thought I could distract you well enough last night—”

“Akira!”

He downright bursts into laughter, a clear and careless sound she’s not used to hearing this unrestrained, not with this openness. It’s a compliment for something she did right, and it hugs her like a thin blanket on a sunny but windy day.

“Stop messing with me,” she mutters but with the hint of a smile on her lips. The roadsign signals the exit for Tokyo’s main station, white kanjis on deep green, and it dies on the spot.

The car slows down and Akira approaches the exit on the left. Past the toll checkpoint and down the ramp, the streets of central Tokyo are still as hollow as the one they’ve just left.

Akira is focused on following the directions leading to the station but his eyes dart between her and the road. He stops at a red light but keeps his gaze locked before him.

“So… how many gymnasts will take part in the Worlds?”

“Apart from me? Two for the individual seniors, two individual juniors, and the five gymnasts for the group competitions.”

“Oh. It’s quite the group.”

“Not as big as other Countries’ but… yes. First, there’ll be junior qualifiers, then senior. Top 8 gymnasts in each apparatus will take part in the respective final, while the 24 with the sum of three out of four highest scores will access the all-around final.” She clenches her fingers into fists. “To secure a spot for the Olympics, I must be among the top 16, or be the top Japanese gymnast to compete in the final.”

He clicks his tongue. “So, you’re competing against your own colleagues other than the foreigners.”

She nods. “Since Japan will be the host Country for the 2020 Olympics, according to the FIG Code of Points we are granted a spot for one of our athletes if no Japanese gymnast should qualify for the Olympics through the standard procedure – granted that said person is also the highest-ranked gymnast in the upcoming World Championship all-around final.”

The brown bricks of Tokyo Central Station come into sight, with stark white stripes adorning the lower portion of the building. The plaza in front of it is quiet, still devoid of the ordered chaos summoned by commuters and travelers. On the side, under glass shelter number 3 in the bus zone, there’s the shuttle that will lead the group to Narita airport. Then the journey will go from Japan to Azerbaijan and from Baku airport to the National Gymnastics Arena.

She swallows but there’s a knot blocking the air out of her lungs.

Akira stops near a sidewalk in the area reserved for vehicles in transit. His right hand lingers on the unlock button just near the window switch but doesn’t press it still. His lips are pursed, like all the times he has something mulling over in his mind and is pondering how to voice it.

“What you’ve just told me,” he hums, “don’t forget about it.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

He leans closer to her, brushing their foreheads together, and the old leather and faint smoke scent of Sojiro’s car gets overpowered by Akira’s unique mix of spice and convenience store soap.

“I believe that you can accomplish great things Sumi. I’m sure you can aim to be on the first step of that podium.” His eyes glimmer despite the shadows cast by his fringe and his smile is as warm as the sunlight that is starting to seep through the clouds and flow into the city. “But if things get overwhelming, keep in mind that you have a unique ace up your sleeve to play.”

She catches her breath and nods. She hasn’t to prove she’s the best in the world yet – just that she’s the best in Japan. Which is a big enough challenge on its own but at least it doesn’t make her head swim at the sole thought. Little steps at a time.

“Thank you,” she whispers against his lips and leans in to kiss him. He’s mildly hoy despite the chill of dawn, a radiating warmth that lingers even after he pulls back. Soft pads stroke the skin of her cheek, gently.

“An entire week away on the other side of the world… you and Goro love to leave a poor thief alone.”

The fact that he’s joking doesn’t stop one little, infamous twinge of guilt from stinging in her guts. She pouts.

“Then come with me the next time.”

He blinks and parts his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, and she savors him being the one taken aback for once.

“Making me make promises, huh?” He chuckles. “Just wait until I find the money.”

Heat rises to her face. “Y-you are not obliged of course…”

He gives her a gentle headbutt, bumping their foreheads together with nothing more than a nudge that nonetheless startles her.

“C’mon. Let’s get your baggage out.”

And he’s out of the car.

With wounded pride churning at the base of her stomach, she opens the door and helps him empty the trunk of the luggage, backpack, and hoop. She shoulders the last two and raises the handle of the suitcase. Lastly, she turns to him.

Still, in the half-light that filters through the clouds, his eyes can pierce through shadowy locks and thick eyelashes and annihilate all the rest. It’s that kind of look that will never not shake her very core, one that she will loathe not having on her and solely on her while she’s under the spotlight and dancing to her music.

With one arm Sumire hugs him, tilting on her tiptoes to squeeze her face in the crook of his neck and absorb that scent that lately has become to mean home more than her own house.

“I’ll miss you a lot.”

Akira’s arms embrace her back. “Me too. Do your best. And text me when you arrive.”

“Will do!”

“Here, let me take a selfie…” He takes out his phone and flips the camera to their side. “Say hi to Goro!”

She glances at the screen: cramped against his body, it’s evident that despite the height she gained over the years, he’s still more than a dozen centimeters taller. His signature rebel curls now grow shorter near the base of his neck and barely touch the clothes: a white shirt that draws the curves of his shoulders a little too accurately, a tight fit black t-shirt underneath matched with a discolored pair of jeans – it’s no surprise Ann is pestering him about ‘haunting for new clothes and the decency to throw away these ones’.

She giggles. The shutter goes off.

“Hey! I wasn’t ready!”

“You’re cute though.”

Akira taps on the photo preview and sizes it full-screen: she does have her eyes closed… but the shot is indeed pretty.

“Okay… then please, send it to me, too.”

“Think I have a better idea…” he mumbles while tapping on the screen.

Her phone vibrates with the notification of a new message: ‘Akira has added you to a new group.’ She opens the banner and their picture appears as the first message in a chat with the three of them. Her gaze hovers over the name.

“Royal Trio?”

“Between a prince detective and the aspiring queen of rhythmic gymnastics, it felt appropriate.”

With the tip of her ears burning, she clears her voice and asks: “And you would be…?”

He motions the gesture of adjusting the white domino mask on his face and smirks so convincingly, that Sumire could swear Joker’s mask indeed flickered on his nose.

“A thief of royal hearts, the greatest of all times. Obviously.”

Maybe it’s the theatrics. Maybe it’s how unfairly beautiful he is even in bleached weather and with barely 4 hours of sleep in his body. Maybe it’s a way to release the tension that hasn’t stopped building into her since she’s been convocated for the Worlds in Baku.

Maybe it’s just the grip he’s always had on her.

She snorts, forcing the outburst not to explode too loudly because it’s still not even 6 in the morning and there’s a bus with the National Team gathering up not far from their position, but the cackle seizes her throat, chest, and deep into her sides, into her guts.

She rushes back into hugging him.

“Thank you so much.”

A hand pats her head. “Have a safe trip. And record your performance or I will have to ask Futaba to hack into whichever foreign operator broadcasts the Worlds. Okay?”

“Noted,” she gulps. She steps back, grabs the handle of her suitcase, and starts crossing the plaza.

“See you in a week!”

He waves a hand to her and climbs back into Sojiro’s old-fashioned car. The engine goes off with a low grumble, and the vehicle proceeds straight out of the transit area.

Smiling to herself, Sumire keeps walking toward the bus, where the last gymnast apart from her joined the group, together with her coach.

Her own Coach meets her halfway.

“Good morning, Sumire. I see you’re in a good mood today.”

“Yes ma’am! I’m ready to do my best.”

Coach Hiraguchi stops in front of her. She scans Sumire and moves her gaze far behind her shoulders, to where Sumire came from, and back to her.

“I see,” she simply comments, a subtle grin gracing her lips.

Realization creeps into her together with waves and waves of embarrassment. If Coach was already here…

She yelps. Her coach chuckles.

“Need I not ask?”

“Please don’t.”

She defeatedly bows her head in lack of more drastic escape routes and drags her baggage to the bus’s van.

The sun catches one in the multitude of glass windows making up the futuristic structure of Baku’s National Gymnastics Arena, and Sumire has to shield her eyes from the piercingly bright reflection.

Waves of white steel run around the Arena like fabrics flapping in the wind, which, according to the official website, at night are often lighted by the blue, red, and green of the national flag.

It could be her hurried breakfast’s fault but overall, it reminds her of an architectural pile of pancakes.

Gymnasts from all over the world are climbing the staircases leading to the main entrance. In a couple of hours, after the warm-up, the Arena will be open to the public and the first day of senior competitions will begin.

The raw energy buzzing through her body, through muscles and sinews and nerves, makes her breaths shaky and the air heavy.

“So, here we are,” Coach Hiraguchi says.

“Here we are,” she echoes.

“Nervous?”

She swallows dry. Nods. A hand circles her shoulders and squeezes her left upper arm.

“Trust your progress.”

“What if it’s not enough?”

The hold tightens around her.

“It’s not your first World Championship. This year is not last year. And the others are the others. You’re you.”

Funny, Ryuji said the same thing that first night of January. Coach Hiraguchi would truly like him.

And it’s true – it’s not Sofia. She gained a whole additional year of experience and training on her shoulders. But in Sofia there were a mere three spots for the Olympics – she never truly believed those were within her grasp. Now there’s sixteen. And sixteenth in the world sounds a lot more reasonable than third in the world, a lot more plausible.

A lot more dangerous.

“It’s okay,” she breathes out, more to herself than to her Coach. “I still have an ace up my sleeve.”

The best in Japan is safer than the best in the world. She just has to make it to the final.

Best in Japan. And the final. Two conditions. Simple as that.

She climbs the first step of the concrete staircase and despite the trembling of her foot, she lands on the second one.

“You still have another half a year before the Olympics, too.”

Sumire turns to Coach Hiraguchi, warmth growing in her chest like a gem among all the pressure compressing her ribcage, and smiles.

She clenches the light plastic of the hoop, its weight like a third upper limb – even in the half-darkness of the waiting corridor, it sparkles jittery flashes.

It’s taped in pink glitters that match the decorations of her purple leotard with stylized flowers embroidered on the transparent tissue covering her arms. It gifts her a fairy aura and ever since Coach Hiraguchi proposed the color it made her giggle that it’s a match to her name.

The one the loudspeakers are announcing.

She tilts her chin forward, straightens her back, and enters the blinding light of Baku’s National Gymnastics Arena, her next theatre. With pride and grace and a tight knot at the base of her stomach, she climbs the steps leading to the blue raised section and walks on the floor.

She lays her hoop down, clutches it with her toes well curled, and pushes her arms back forming the starting pose.

The signal beeps, the first notes of the music play, and her exhibition starts. It’s all flutes and tambourines with a hint of percussions but the rhythm is fast-paced and she has to dance along with it.

Using her foot she throws the hoop in the air, spins under it twice, rolls to the floor, and catches it in between the back of her knees – good, the first risk went smoothly.

Flowing the melody, she transitions to the apparatus difficulty by rotating the hoop around her ankle while she twists back on her feet. There’s a reprise of the motif in the music and she raises on her tiptoes to execute a pivot; she bends her back, hooks the free foot with both hands, and starts counting: 180, 360, 540, c’mon Sumire… and 720.

She exhales and grabs the hoop from around her ankle. Then the second risk: a throw, two rotations, a dive roll, and the hoop lands back between her legs.

The music changes, and violins add to the melody.

She loses grip on a balance and doesn’t hold the figure properly. It doesn’t matter. The show must go on.

A cabriole, and she approaches the third risk. The hoop travels in the air, she pushes her body forward into a walkover then splits her legs halfway through with the right one drifting sideways to catch it.

Shit. She’s slightly ahead of time.

The apparatus lands safely on her ankle but she lost momentum and straightening back up is an atrocious and most of all ungraceful effort, one that forces oxygen out of her lungs and prompts stabbing pain in her abdomen and lower back.

With gritted teeth, she twirls, makes the hoop fly again, and dives onto the floor. Trajectory’s off. She leans back to catch it between her thighs but keeps her neck bent, too – screw those extra points for ‘no visual control’ she needs to make sure she doesn’t lose the apparatus.

The violins fade away, signaling the beginning of the final portion of the track. Time for the step sequence.

She dances around the floor, trying to convey the magic evoked by the scores with the movements of her body and the mastery of her handlings of the hoop – from left to right on her shoulders, up in the air, around her wrists, it moves like it’s truly enchanted.

Last apparatus difficulty. She shoots the hoop back while she jumps forward – damn, she threw it with too much force. She abandons the choreography and runs under it to catch it with as much grace as she can muster.

She makes it rotate around her shoulders, passes it around her neck, onto her other shoulder, and from that to her hand. The flutes drag their final notes long in an almost-solo and she performs a final medium throw. Bending backward in a walkover under it, she catches the hoop before it lands and straightens into her finishing pose, proudly displaying the apparatus as if it were a work of art between her fingers.

The cheering of the public washes onto her, a hot shower of enthusiasm and as soothing as a real one. She beams and waves back – all in all, she didn’t mess up too badly. Probably.

She strides towards the kiss and cry, just adjacent to the wooden celebration stage, a little area with purplish-brown squared sofas and a panel with the Championships logo and the sponsors placed behind them. Coach Hiraguchi is already seated and handles her the Japanese sweater.

“Careful with the throws, Sumire.”

She drapes it around her shoulders and sits on the puff with a grimace.

“I know…”

“You did well overall, but a whole apparatus difficulty missing… we’ll see.”

She strangles her fingers, canalizing all the tension in that powerful hold. It shouldn’t be too bad… right? The base for D-score isn’t that high in her case and she knows it but…

She sighs. Her D-score is never that grand. She truly shouldn’t have messed up that AD. Now she can only hope it won’t compromise the score too much—

The loudspeakers crackle.

“After due evaluation, the united jury assigned the performance of Sumire Yoshizawa with the hoop a total score of 19.300.”

“For real?!”

She covers her mouth with both hands, from both the score and her own reaction. She gathers back her composure and glances at Coach Hiraguchi, who’s saluting the cameras. She flashes a peace sign and a grin to the cameraman, lifts the hoop, and heads back to the athlete’s quarters.

On her way to the changing rooms, she tilts her head toward the general rankings: the scores for the hoop final are already set, and with a 21.600 securing the eighth place, she’s definitely out.

She nibs at her lower lip. Even with fewer mistakes and that apparatus difficulty counted, she could’ve placed tenth or ninth at best, so she tries to keep the unpleasantness pooling at the base of her stomach at bay. No brooding, no obsessing. She has three more routines to go through.

Under the too-bright spotlights of the Arena, she twists and turns her body to accentuate the swings of the music. The pairing of the iridescent white leotard with her scarlet hair outshines the simple silver of the ball, which should be a co-protagonist and not a mere addition on the stage – she will have to find a solution for that before the next big gathering.

She sweated a lot for her ball performance.

The track is angelical but unforgiving and her difficulties were too simple for such a piece – as the recital for the Aeon Club demonstrated. The opera-like lyrics (are they Latin?) push the mood into a serious and sacred mood, something holy that is only reinforced by the chimes of the pipe organ.

It’s delicate and private yet one of the most demanding routines she’s ever etched into her muscle memory. Far from the carefreeness of her hoop one, the ball requires precision, strength, and timing calculated to the split of a second.

She grits her teeth as the ball rolls on her limbs and travels through the air and spins on her fingertips. The smile she wears on her lips is tightly put but has a loose strand that unwinds the more the routine proceeds, pulled by each cartwheel or walkover or leap.

The music explodes into its climax and the pipe organ is more powerful than ever.

Sumire throws the ball and dances under it, pushing her arms back and up into the air near the end of the risk to make the apparatus slot precisely in the crook between her shoulder blades. She bends forward and allows it to move towards her hands then breaks position and flows into a balance.

The stretch in her limbs ache. Her lungs need to catch a breath and catch it for real.

She raises in the two final pivots of the routine. The bleachers spin around her while she splits her right leg up with the ankle lingering near her nose and extends her hand out to hold the ball. She allows her foot to touch the floor and then up again for a ring pivot that perfectly follows the muting lyrics.

The music blurs to voice and organ, just voice, and finally – silence.

She stops the pivot, stilling with her hand raised above her head as if to offer her apparatus to some kind of entity.

The roar from the public is even stronger than before, a storm of cries and applauses that nearly sets her body off balance.

Heaving, she weakly salutes them and retreats toward the kiss and cry.

She does her best not to throw herself on the cushions but her legs give up halfway through the motions and she lands flat on her lower back in a very ungraceful way. Her fringe is all stuck to her forehead.

“Oof,” she pants, snatching the bottle of water that Coach is offering her.

“That was quite the performance, Sumi,” she muses. “Although I must say, you’re still a bit too stiff.”

She just nods. Her respiratory system wouldn’t allow her a verbal response even if she tried. It’s always been the problem with this routine in particular: they raised the difficulty after the recital in February… but she’s still lacking the stamina to execute it at full potential, and it’s taxing.

Coach Hiraguchi studies her.

“This won’t do. We need to find a balance before next summer. I let you go all out today because you have a full night to recover before your next two routines but you won’t have that at the Olympics. We’ll have to tone this down, for the next couple of competitions at least.”

She nods again, chewing the inner flesh of her cheeks. At 18, her growth spurt should by now be over but this doesn’t mean she cannot strengthen her body starting from what she has.

She brushes tacky strands away from her eyelids and looks up. The ‘awaiting score’ script disappears from the monitor. From the loudspeakers comes the verdict:

“After the jury’s evaluation, Sumire Yoshizawa’s ball routine scored 20.950.”

50 tenths from 21. Just 50 tenths from 21.

“Oh. My. God.”

She turns to her coach, beaming. Coach Hiraugchi pats her shoulder.

“Good job. Now savor your well-deserved rest: round two is waiting for you tomorrow.”

She stands up on jelly legs that scream pain from each of their tendons. She almost doesn’t want to check the general rankings.

She glances up.

The cap for the ball final is 21.600.

I was almost there.

The smile fades from her lips. With the right push, she can step up this routine to that level. But she needs the stamina.

She has to admit – green doesn’t look good on her. Sure, it’s nothing more than beads and a few glittery straps of fabric in a sea of a more muted steel gray… still, definitely not her color.

She raises her right wrist, the one not holding the clubs, and twirls it mid-air. It’s been years since she last wore this leotard – back then, it was a pair of sizes too large because she made an impulse buy in order to match Kasumi’s fit for a recital. It traces the shapes of her body all too well now, but the color is still off. It was a pity leaving it to rot in her closet though. And besides… it’s nice to have a piece of Kasumi with her for the clubs. And, she does kind of like a red rose branching out from the vase this way. She guesses.

“Sumire Yoshizawa?” one of the operators calls for her name. She jolts and strides into the arena. Time for day II, act I.

She climbs onto the floor and slots the greenish clubs together – a match for the leotard. She hasn’t used those in years, either, but they are at least as comfortable around her fingers as she remembers them.

She lays the clubs over the right instep, bends her back forward but keeps it as flat as a table, and spreads her arms wide open on the side, all stretched and tight, muscle tensing a sweat away before snapping.

The music sets off with a powerful hit of drums and visceral lyrics, and so does she.

First things first, apparatus difficulty: transmission of the clubs from foot to foot and then to hand without manual touch. AD number two, three, and four come next with their throws and catches and rolls. The tempo in the track shifts and the chorus gets reduced to one single voice – it’s time for the first risk.

Standing on her tiptoe she splits her left leg and throws the first club under it. Too low, it gives her no time to properly rotate under the apparatus. She has to hastily catches it back, and the ‘without visual control’ criteria is gone, too. Damn it. Coach even simplified this part of the routine from the initial design.

With a spin, she transitions into a split balance incurvating her trunk backward, and as the music rises again, she follows it into the dance sequence.

The vocals are heart-wrenching – she cannot fathom what they say but the tone in which the singer conveys the lyrics is enough to send chills down her spine every time she listens to it on her old, old mp3. While spinning and milling and launching her clubs she hopes she’s managing to channel all those emotions into her movements despite the not-stellar difficulties she’s performing.

Shit. The eight seconds required for the S points have passed and she’s slightly behind the music.

She lowers in a backward walkover faster than usual to par up again with the base and throws one club, rolls on the floor, and stretches her hand to catch it.

It bounces in her palm.

She jolts to grab it before it slips and counts as a loss but sure enough, she’s already gained a penalty for the extra movements.

Back again she launches herself in the turning split leaps following the climax of the music (ouch she’s come dangerously closed to step off the border), spins while slotting the clubs together, and launches them for the final risk: she dives on the floor, rolls, stops on her knees and slips her hand forward, palm open.

The clubs land. The music stops.

The world swipes back in with the ever-loud crowd cheering for her. With a dull pain reverberating through the bones and cartilages of her knees she stands up and walks away from the spotlight, waving her hand to the public.

Coach Hiraguchi pats the spot beside her on the kiss and cry. Stays quiet.

Sumire supposes they got the gist of it by now. Plus, her routine wasn’t astounding – fairly simple, and not even perfectly executed.

It’ll be a mercy if I score a nineteen.

And as precise as a Swiss clock, the score comes in: 18.400.

She flattens her lips, teeth clenching and sending spikes of pressure up to her temples. She isn’t entitled to feel disappointed by such a result when she wasn’t even prepared to give much more in the first place.

Today, this score won’t count – given that she won’t mess up her ribbon, that is. Today, it will the sum of just the three best scores. In two days, though…

If she indeed manages to enter the final, she isn’t getting away with only the three bests.

“C’mon,” Coach Hiraguchi nudges her shoulder. “Time to get changed. You’re almost there.”

She nods.

She crosses the area to reach the changing rooms – another gymnast is performing and the crowd is cheering but it all comes through a cotton-like haze to her.

 Melancholic piano and sad violins don’t make for a top choice for routine music but this one… this is the only track she did express a true preference on. Maybe because it’s a slow dance, or perhaps it is because it’s soothing to perform, as it often happens with ribbon, at the end of the all-around, when her mood is at the lowest.

She starts off simple: a forward walkover while she throws the apparatus, two rotations under it, and a spinning catch.

She moves following the melody and it doesn’t matter if it’s not top-of-the-world difficult because the handle flies and lands between her fingers with the accuracy of a magician performing a trick, and the tail of the sky-painted ribbon is exactly where it needs to, when it needs to. She draws spirals and snakes and it keeps bouncing prettily on the floor, never leaving the corner of her vision, the way Hiraguchi told her to keep it in check.

She raises in a backsplit pivot, counts 180 plus 180 degrees with air trapped in her chest and pressing against her ribcage, and the world spins.

With heels back on the floor, she trots into a series of three split leaps – one, she puts all her energy in; two, she clenches the handle of the ribbon tighter; three, she grinds her teeth, too, but it’s not over, she’s still barely even started.

She lets the handle roll on her right hand and wrist, grabs the fabric with her left one, and throws it. She spins under it following the powerful scale of the piano, bends back until the floor is in sight and her right palm touches it, and – yes!, the ribbon lands between the fingers of her other hand.

She rotates, angles the handle of the apparatus downward until the first dozen centimeters brush the ground, and she kicks it back into the air with the upper arch of her foot and dives forward to catch it.

The piano picks up again and so does she.

Sumire draws large loops with the tail and dances her way through them in tempo with the score, and concludes the step sequence with a fancy boomerang: she grabs the ribbon by its tail while flying and yanks it back to her – a tad too messy for her and certainly the judge’s liking. She wets her lips in the beat of an eye and raises on her tiptoes for the split balance, fabric spinning all around her body.

One big breath before the final risk. She performs the throw from behind her shoulders, hops, and spins under it three times, and - ugh. It’ll land too on the right. She readjusts her body with two extra steps that will cost her points both in D-score and E-score, and rolls on the floor, splaying on it chest-down as the music fade away. The ribbon perfectly lands in between her knees, and she stills.

From the tribune, cheers come in roars. Panting, she turns to sit and disentangles the six-meters fabric from her legs, waving it on itself. Her fingers tremble. Her shoulders, too.

Slowly, she raises and stalks to the kiss and cry clutching the apparatus. Coach Hiraguchi wears her barely contained smirk, the one with flat lips but pulled edges – the one that means she thinks she’s about to score well and only waits for the judges to tell.

Sumire sits beside her and swallows. She hopes. She doesn’t. She hopes… damn, she performed everything with minor mistakes, all things considered. On her final routine, too.

The speakers buzz.

Coach Hiraguchi raises to stand.

Numbers appear on the screens but the knot strangling her throat must be blocking the oxygen off her brain because they’re just a blurred blotch.

Someone is hugging her tightly, gently patting between her shoulder blades.

She leans her cheek away from Coach’s raven hair and squeezes her eyes into focus.

20.450

“Oh.”

It’s three best scores so – 19.300, 21.600 and 20.450. It’s 60.700.

60.700 means she should be between twelfth and fifteenth in the general ranking. Which in return means—

Given the advancement status in the exhibition rotation, even if the next gymnasts score above her, she will never be pushed as back as beyond the qualification threshold at twenty-fourth.

Shaking palms clasp together before her mouth. Tears moist the corner of her eyes.

“I managed to reach the final…”

Coach Hiraguchi gently nudges her with her shoulder and points at the billboard.

“Look more carefully.”

The apparatus rankings also got updated. Short of breath, she searches the rows. Japanese flag. Sumire Yoshizawa. Aeon Club – oh dear god.

“Fifth at the ribbon?!”

“Congratulations on also entering your first world apparatus final.”

Her makeup hasn’t been done by the kind fingers of Ann this time so she feels no remorse in ruining it with happy tears.

A third routine the same day wasn’t planned or expected – not by her and sure enough, not by her body.

She goes back on the floor with her cloudy ribbon and cerulean leotard and her brain does the math about how far in the exercise she can go while giving her one-hundred-percent best. The music starts before she has even finished skimming over the major portions. So, it’s all muscle memory.

She lets the piano scales and the violins and the accompanying orchestra carry her through the motions, a limbo where her mind is numb and her body just… does. Executes risk after risk, difficulty after difficulty.

Even the smile never leaves her face, muscles lacking the will to relax and exit what has by now been set as the ‘default option’.

It’s a peculiar trance, and she’s the calmest she’s ever been since forever.

Like a cold shower after a cozy nap, the claps of the public rouse her. And just as tiredly, as if she’s still half-asleep, she moves to the kiss and cry and collapses on the pouf. Her limbs are heavy, sore like after the hardest of training, to the point where she doubts she can actually manage to get up once the score is announced.

It’s 19.300. Still a fifth place. Probably lacking in execution.

Coach Hiraguchi tenses, on the verge of saying something.

Sumire grits her teeth, but the yawn that threatens to seize her escapes as a muttered groan through the cracks before she can at least try to conceal it.

The all-around final will be tough. Rest is all she needs to be ready to give it her best. Rest, and a good breakfast.

To the shiver that runs down her spine at the thought of tomorrow, she answers with Akira’s words – there’s still an ace up her sleeve to play, and the best in the world isn’t required yet. Just the best in Japan.

She, indeed, isn’t amongst the sixteen bests in the world.

And as much as the billboards prove she’s still the best in Japan, the corners of her lips don’t curl past the politeness level.

‘Half victories are still victories’ Coach Hiraguchi said… it doesn’t help fill up the emptiness in her chest.

Maybe because it’s a temporary victory more than a half one. Unless she gains a true spot, every other gymnast could undermine her position and null the host Country’s privilege – they would only have to gain the spot offered by the World Cup Series or the Continental Championships. This position is hers, name and surname on it, but it isn’t definitive, not until every other option runs out… which means hoping in the other gymnasts’ defeat. Which is a terrible, horrible thing to hope for.

She grimaces.

Maybe her worst mistake, among the numerous she committed in her routines today, was daring to believe she could prove her worth this time.

The winner trio beams from the podium – two from Russia and one from Israel. Under the spotlight and the rain of confetti, they smile for the cameras, raising their flower bouquets and metal medals high into the air. Around the area, the other successful gymnasts pose with their flags stretched out behind them or draped around their shoulders like all-world colorful capes.

Sumire holds her sweater tighter around her upper body and sulks on the wooden bench from the corner of the athlete’s waiting area.

It’s not like they didn’t deserve it. It’s not.

It’s that… objectively, this time, she was close. Nineteen isn’t far from sixteen. It should be a solace but it’s only salt on an open wound.

She sighs and slips her arms into the sleeve of the sweater more properly.

Coach Hiraguchi comes to stand before her, cutting off the view with her fit figure and one hand offering her a plastic bottle of water.

She tilts her head aside.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not thirsty right now.”

Words grate against her throat, making her voice a rasp. Coach Hiraguchi raises one eyebrow but merely lowers her offer.

“A journalist contacted me for an interview. She couldn’t get to your number or your e-mail address but she somehow dug mine up. Said she wanted a chat with you over video call after today’s final.”

“Has she introduced herself?”

A pointless question, but who might know.

“Saki Morimoto, rhythmic gymnastics specialist for the Tokyo Weekly Sports Magazine’s new serial dedicated to the Olympic Games of next year.”

“Miss Morimoto, huh…”

So, she worked her way up – she must’ve moved to Tokyo, then.

A shiver shakes her. She hopes she won’t find her at the Club’s gates once she flies back home and resumes her regular training. Not that she’s a bad person! But Sumire is indeed bad at this whole PR thing and just the thought of having to deal with any of it right now makes the pit of her stomach open and a bitter aftertaste linger on her tongue.

But if she straight up refuses the interviews it won’t be polite nor good for her image, so she probably should bottle up all her mumblings and act like the professional she is.

But what if she fails the interview so badly that it causes even more collateral damage?

“Sumire.”

She lifts her head. Coach Hiraguchi stares at her with her expression blank and her hand clenching the bottle of water, perfectly composed and collected. Which means she’s probably very angry at her right now. Great.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I told the journalist she could talk to me once I returned to the hotel.”

She grits her teeth, face flushed. “Truly, there was no need to—”

“I will also take care of the reporters lurking around here. They’re still busy with the others and it will pass some time before they come searching for you – which they will, given that you’re currently the only possible qualified Japanese gymnast for the Summer Olympics.” She shakes her head, her gaze ever harder than before. It makes Sumire squirm in her seat. “The one reason I’m doing it is that you need rest and all this wouldn’t allow you to get enough of it, not before tomorrow’s flight back.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” she whispers with a bow. It won’t come free of charge.

“I covered for you with Shujin High all that time ago, because you were cornered. I am doing it again now because you cannot physically sustain it. There won’t be a third. Next time a situation like this happens – and it will – no matter the circumstances, it’s on you to take the lead. You’re a professional now and PR, too, is important. Am I clear?”

She swallows. Her throat aches with held-back tears.

“Transparent, ma’am.”

She nods. “Good.”

“I’m very sorry for today’s performance, Coach.”

Coach Hiraguchi exhales. She sits beside her on the bench, which squeaks under the additional weight.

“I wouldn’t be so harsh with you if it were just about the results, you know that?” Deep black eyes focus on her and solely on her… but not like they’re singling her out. More like they’re trying to reach deep inside her soul. “You need to stop running away.”

The world wavers around her, all the background noises of the Arena silenced by cotton-thick numbness. She gasps.

“I…”

She was done fleeing. She promised it – to herself, to her Coach, to Senpai. To Kasumi.

Goodness… she hasn’t visited her in years. The last time she went to Aoyama with her parents she yet had to meet Dr. Maruki. What a disastrous sister she is.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Coach.” And next time, she’ll face the press as best as she can.

Coach Hiraguchi nods and hums under her breath as if contemplating whether to voice the next thought or not.

“That reporter, Morimoto… inquired with me if she could ask you some personal question. Regarding your family.”

Sumire’s face jolts to her right. Panic downs on her like a maleficent spell and spreads through her body – it clenches her chest, strangles her gut, and turns her skin to ice. It indeed seemed like Miss Morimoto grasped something, last year in Takasaki when she had just qualified for the National Team.

Her Coach slips a comforting arm around her shoulders and scoots her closer.

“I don’t know what she knows, or if she found something. If she recognized your surname and has found out about your dad, it’s possible she did her research and discovered about the accident.” She clicks her tongue. “It’s… another reason why you should avoid an interview with her right now.”

“I understand.”

“Sadly, things like this happen very frequently. I even have to admit she’s at least been sensitive enough to test the grounds with me instead of directly asking you. Many other reporters wouldn’t have been this kind. I fear that’s also something you’ll have to take into account for the future.”

“Right. Thanks, Coach.”

Coach Hiraguchi gives her shoulders one final squeeze and stands up.

“C’mon, go back to the hotel and I’ll dive into the lion’s den. Get all the rest you can and no late-night texting with your handsome boyfriend, all right?”

The tips of her ears turn scorching hot. Or maybe it’s her cheeks. No, her entire face.

“It’s not— I would never—” she coughs, clearing her voice. “Yes ma’am. Straight to sleep.”

“Good. Have a good night, then.” She smiles warmly. And locks her gaze with Sumire’s again. “Don’t beat yourself too hard. You’ve improved a lot since last year and, aside from the all-around final which is a remarkable achievement, you accessed an apparatus final and performed a really good ball routine. That one is still too tough for your body yet you handled it well, even under pressure.”

She slips the hand away from Sumire’s shoulder and walks toward the bigger gatherings. Left behind her, a still unopened bottle of water lays on the bench.

Sumire: Hey Senpai
Sumire: And Akechi-san!
Sumire: I’m heading to bed right now, but first…
[link attached]
Sumire: I couldn’t manage to record any video of my performances, but I overheard one of the other athletes saying that at this link you can watch the streaming of just the final for free. I was number 20 in the rotation, so near the end of each apparatus
Sumire: Please don’t ask Futaba to hack into any foreign broadcast operators

Akechi Goro: Ask Sakura to do what now??
Akechi Goro: Akira what the fuck

Akira: it’s 3 am here go back to sleep
Akira: haven’t you got work to do tomorrow
Akira: (hi sumi <3 sleep well!)

Sumire has never been one for those ‘this year is going to be my year!’ kind of resolution. She never truly believed any year would be hers, anyway.

Kasumi wasn’t, either – but truth be told, each year has always been her year. Bar 2016, Sumire supposes.

2020 should be no exception: she has no more faith in this year than any of the previous, except this time it must be hers, because either through the World Cup Series or the Continental Championships, she has to gain a real spot for the 2020 Summer Olympics.

And 2020… really is no exception. A pandemic of all things comes to wreak havoc and shatters everything into small pieces once again.

It’s March 24^th when Japan declares a state of emergency and the Aeon Club closes.

On the way home from the last practice for who knows how long, bag tugged by her feet on the passenger’s seat of her dad’s car, there’s only one thought that crosses her mind, bitter like vomit:

Happy birthday to me.

Chapter Text

Ann: hi sumi good luck 4 today!!
Ann: make it a blast

Haru: Good luck! Even if we can’t be there in person, we’ll all be following the official streaming!

Ryuji: hell yeah we do
Ryuji: stupid regulations
Ryuji: i’m yelling so much you’ll hear me anyway

Makoto: Please don’t.
Makoto: And Sumi, do your best! We’re cheering for you.

Yusuke: I’ll be avidly watching in the hope you show us your most wonderful moves.

Futaba: can’t you simply wish her good luck without being a weirdo Inari?
Futaba: anyway, you’ve got this sumi!! ＼(＾▽＾)／

Akechi Goro: You trained hard. Don’t let others intimidate you and perform at your best.

Akira: what he said but make it sound less like a lecture from your coach
Akira: <3

Sumire: Thank you, everyone! I will do my best (￣▽￣*)ゞ
[photo attached]

With quivering fingers, Sumire sends the picture Hiraguchi took of her doing a ring balance in front of the five Olympic rings yesterday evening, before settling all their baggage and suitcases at the village.

She pockets her phone to calm down the trembling and tilts her gaze up to the structure trapping the sun behind it.

Where once stood only land and a construction site – and a cognitively generated research laboratory – now the Ariake Gymnastics Center looms over her, proud in its rhomboidal shape. The underside is entirely wood planks, propped up here and there by concrete supports, while the roof produces an intricate net of steel that appears as a compact block if observed from afar.

She breathes in the earthy scent and the sting of freshly-built wood, with the wind from Odaiba bay bringing forth the smell of saltwater in waves.

Just (already?) four and a half years ago, when she still thought of herself as Kasumi, she was crossing the cognitive boundary separating the real-life building site from the Palace, among the quiet buzzing of everyone’s happiness that thickened the air like honey.

She used to come here to soothe her mind. Maybe it wasn’t as much of a personal thing as simply being that much under Dr. Maruki’s influence because not a single bolt or rivet of the Ariake Gymnastics Center is calming. Her lungs are stiff and she has yet to put foot on the floor. Half her brain looks hopefully at the possibility of proving her worth, finally showing the world what Sumire Yoshizawa is made of, and half her brain broods in the absolute conviction that she has no right to be here today.

“Do you want me to shoot a pic?” Coach Hiraguchi calls back to her, muffled through the face mask.

She adjusts her own mask and glances around: gymnasts from all over the world are stopping by to take quick selfies before heading to the entrance, and a few reporters lurk around the area. Still, the spacious parking lots for visitors’ vehicles are empty and will remain so for what remains of the Olympics.

Sumire inhales the morning air as best as she can but the intake is more artificial cleanness filtered by the tissue than the real breeze.

“Thanks ma’am but you already took plenty the other night.” A small laugh comes out, more nervous than she’d like. “I’m good.”

“Then let’s check in and get rid of the bureaucracy.”

She nods and moves on.

They get their passes, weigh all of the apparatus to verify they comply with the current regulations, and reach the main hall for warm-ups and technical rehearsal.

Sumire covers her eyes from the blinding white lights hanging from the ceiling where wood beams run from side to side. Everything is clad in different hues of blue. A deeper tone covers the entirety of the competition space, while the proper exhibition floor is elevated and surrounded by a calming sky note of light blue. The barriers dividing the floor from the tribunes all report the Tokyo 2020 logo, alternating on azure and cobalt backgrounds.

And they’re all empty.

No one sits on three out of the four sides, and the fourth is occupied by the only people physically allowed to the venture: a portion of the staff and the press.

Sighing, she walks straight to the waiting area, where rows of foldable chairs have been neatly positioned to offer gymnasts a place to sit while they wait after competing. A little more to the right, the kiss and cry booth stands in the form of a navy panel, a pair of long dark couches, and not one but two television cameras pointed at it.

She lays her gym bag onto one of the chairs and unzips the Japanese team sweater. Coach Hiraguchi picks it up and folds it upon her arm.

“Stretch as usual and stay focused. When you’re done with the exercises, start with the hoop or ribbon routine. Don’t overdo with the ball and don’t sweat it with the clubs. All right?”

“Yes, coach.”

Coach Hiraguchi points at her own face with her index and middle finger, lips tensed and brows furrowed.

“Eyes on me when you’re not warming up. Don’t obsess over the other gymnasts. You’ll have plenty of time to study them when the competition begins.”

She nods. Mindlessly, her fingers tighten the knot of her uniform’s sweatpants.

“Good,” is all Coach Hiraguchi lets out.

Sumire swallows. Her head is light. Anxiety pools at the base of her stomach, that under-the-skin current that shortens her breaths despite the lack of true physical fatigue but it’s still too far away from making any damage – it’s the promise of ‘later’ and what ‘later’ might bring forth, more than present wreckage.

Lowering her chest so that she can squeeze her ankles and press her nose in between her knees, she closes her eyes and stretches her legs until there’s just the burning of tendons working and no thought at all.

***

The pitch of a siren announces the end of the warm-up, and the loudspeakers redirect the attention of all the 26 gymnasts to the gigantic led screens announcing the order in which they will be performing through the four rotations.

And the name ‘Yoshizawa Sumire’ towers on top of the list, with the symbol of a ball beside it. She’s first.

Her stomach twitches, and a bitter taste coats her tongue. 26 plus God knows how many pairs of eyes zero in on her, prompting a shiver to run down her spine.

Rotation order is determined randomly. It’s just pure bad luck that she has to go first – no one likes to open the dances like that, even less at the Olympics.

She purses her lips tightly and heads for the changing rooms. Her fingers itch to scratch the staring of the mostly empty Arena away from her back but she doubts she would’ve succeeded even if she tried.

The waiting jingle fades out, with the piano slowly giving space to the announcer, who greets the very few guests, the nonexistent public, and the spectators from the streaming in English:

“Welcome to the women’s individual all-around qualification for the 2020 Summer Olympics in Tokyo!”

The message gets then repeated in Japanese.

A staff member, a woman young enough to be Coach Hiraguchi’s peer, gestures for Sumire to come forward. The hostess climbs the steps toward the platform with the Tokyo 2020 logo printed on it; her dark hair bounces left and right hanging from the tight ponytail she wears.

Sumire walks right behind her, with her sparkling white ball nested under her left arm. The fingertips of her right hand, sadly free from impediments, scratch and jiggle and play with one another with a chaotic and wholly inelegant fidgeting.

Coach Hiraguchi follows her from below the stage, her eyes barely at hip-level with Sumire. Her brows are furrowed.

“Don’t overexert yourself. This routine is complex and it’s just the first one. You’ll have another three after this. It isn’t worth the sweat if you’re too tired to perform the rest.”

Sumire just nods, eyes glued before her. The hostess is reaching the middle of the platform where the five Olympic rings stand, and she’s asking her to proceed.

Chilly air invades her aching lungs. She wets her lips and strides there.

The pre-registered orchestral piece introduces her, and the slim crowd does its best to clap hands in tandem with the rhythm, cheering for her. She stops in the middle of the central ring where the hostess is gesturing and raises her chin towards the Arena. At least the only little portion of tribunes that is filled with distanced onlookers is facing directly in front of her.

She’s left alone and from the loudspeakers, her name is announced, both in English and Japanese.

“Performing at the 2020 Summer Olympics in women’s rhythm gymnastics qualification with the ball, representing Japan, Sumire Yoshizawa!”

The encouragements and claps of the few spectators echo through the mostly empty area but they pull a smile out of her lips nonetheless. She kneels on the floor, her right hand stretched before her and holding the ball, and her left arm thrown back past her ear. She settles in the starting position.

The air is charged with adrenaline and every single hair on her body is standing.

The signal beeps and the track starts playing with the sweet voice of the singer.

Sumire lets the ball bounce on the floor, spreads her body forward, bending her spine, and catches it back within her ankles. Pushing on her forearms she straightens her body, passes the ball from her feet to her palm, and lets it travel from hand to hand rolling on the planes of her shoulders while she raises in a split balance.

The organ adds to the music, holy and majestic, and she bends into a forward walkover, exchanging the landing foot midway for added flavor – and before her trunk can begin to raise, she throws the ball in the air.

One, two, three, and four, she manages to squeeze all the supposed rotations underneath and dives into a roll, and… yes! the ball lands precisely in the crook between the back of her knees and it safely touches the floor. Clenching her teeth, she snaps her legs up in the air and, working as a sort of human whip, forces her body to stand up again.

She picks up the ball with her left hand, places it behind her back, and raises on her tiptoes to perform a 1080° ring pivot – she has to push a lot on her lower back to gather the necessary flexibility to keep the ball in place and the muscles of her calves already burn for the effort but she should able to hit all the requirements to gain more than a whole point.

She touches the ground and goes on relève yet again for a fouetté balance: she splits her legs, makes the ball bounce under it, turns 180° while exchanging legs, and retrieves the ball behind her back with her right hand.

The music picks up and she braces herself, inhaling while summoning all her energies to the lower portion of her body: following the explosion of scores and lyrics she performs one turning split leap with her back bend, grits her teeth to do two, and grimaces to squeeze in a third.

The world spins as she lands, out of breath, and she throws the ball high in the air with both hands, bending forward to prepare her shoulder blades to receive it while also gaining a split second of rest.

The ball travels through her arms as she straightens back and prepares to throw it again after a cabriole.

She spins under it but pain stings into her right temple and spreads in the back of her eyes, so she only manages three rotations instead of four. Huffing, she pushes her body up into a handstand, bends her knees, and waits for the apparatus to reach the floor; she then pushes it down again for a second bounce. Pressing on her tiptoes and the neck of her foot, she turns back to face forward and welcomes the ball into her palm.

The music slows down and signals the start of the step sequence: she aims to keep the ball as fixed as possible in her hand while she pivots and dances around it, over it, under it.

Mh.

She probably has enough stamina left to attempt a superior apparatus difficulty.

She breathes in and throws the ball over her head, jerking under it for an extra dance step following the beat, and lets the ball do a little bounce on the floor before bending her body as back as she can until her neck is squeezing the apparatus. She uses it to roll near the center of the stage, raises from flat foot to tiptoes, and holds the air into her lungs to transform the base split ring balance into a relève one despite the aching spreading from fiber to fiber in her muscles.

Finally, the last walkover. She throws the ball as she goes down and does a second one that flows into a rebound, with her chest spreading on the floor and the lower part of her body going up in the air to catch the ball then bending forward so that she’s facing the tribunes again.

Her lower back pulses in dull pain but she manages a second rebound – other athletes may be more experienced but she’s still young enough to capitalize on her added flexibility as far as she can.

She gets up, heaving. Two more risks to go and her vision swims at the mere thought of doing one.

Come on, Sumire, come on.

There’s a sequence of two pivots and a turn that she’s supposed to perform on flat foot – she does it all on relève, hopefully not missing positions and penalizing execution. She has to scrape all the points she can, or else she won’t compensate for the gap in difficulty between her and the other gymnasts.

Needles prick at the corner of her eyes and little dots start spreading through her vision. She performed her ball routine at 100% theoretical difficulty just once in the almost five years she’s been practicing it, and it surely wasn’t with the pressure of an Olympic final hanging over her head.

She throws the ball, exhales, and resigns herself to slip into muscle memory from there onward. Another risk goes by, two more apparatus difficulties, and then the throw before the finish.

She lowers her body on the floor with a split, pushes her chest forward while closing her legs, and bends them to welcome the ball landing from the throw. It nests between her thighs and she jerks her chin upwards, hands graciously joining one another under it for the pose.

The round of applause is a mere snap compared to the thunder roaring through the gym that she was used to… but she guesses it’s still something more than the silence of the Aeon Club where she had to perform long-distance via the internet.

Breathing heavily, she stands back up and waves a hand to the restricted group of people on the tribunes. Her legs and lower back beg for her to stop with every quivering step she takes toward the kiss and cry. Coach Hiraguchi won’t be happy.

And she isn’t.

She doesn’t seem angry, either.

She just welcomes her with one cocked eyebrow and her arms crossed but she relaxes her expression as soon as the tv cameras project their faces on the led screen. Sumire bows.

“I’m sorry Coach. I just wanted to give it my best.”

She indeed was so focused on the routine that the fact she went first got completely overshadowed by the physical efforts.

“It was a good performance,” Coach Hiraguchi concedes, sighing. “And you picked the alterations wisely. If only you’d managed to step it up all the way through the end, it could’ve easily become your best routine today.”

Sumire giggles, squeezing the soft edge of the seat while the judges announce the result. Her throat pulses with the urge to cough, and hard, but she keeps swallowing it down and prays she doesn’t end up near choking before she can down a whole bottle of water.

Truth be told, she has no idea how she will muster up the strength to do three more exhibitions in this state. She has to make sure she makes the best of the resting she’ll get while the rotation ends.

“Attention please,” the announcer says, uprooting her overthinking. “The united jury awarded the exhibition of Sumire Yoshizawa at the ball with a score of 24.950.”

She gulps – it’s high. Higher than any other time she performed the same routine in the past 4 years… which is only one more proof of how much the code values difficulty over execution because she got validated a very nice 17.300 for D score and a not equally nice 7.650 in E score. Meager, even, considering the judges’ tendency to give the benefit of the doubt when competing live. And distant from her usual E scores.

She chews at her lower lips. Coach Hiraguchi is gazing at her.

“Three more to go.”

Sumire swallows dry. Nods. What Coach isn’t saying is that she needs three more at least at the same level as this one if she wishes to have a shot at the final.

And what Sumire learns from the subsequent exhibitions, with peak scores touching the heights of 27 and 28, is that the moment she scores lower than 23, she’s out.

Back in the center of the middle Olympic ring, Sumire hopes the stuffy microphones hanging in the area won’t catch the desperate pounding of her heart.

She glances at her coach. Hiraguchi nods back and makes a two and a three with her fingers, then gives her a thumb up.

Sumire’s name gets called, the first one of the second rotation, so she positions herself on the floor, hoop hooked under her tiptoes, and forces out all the air and thoughts from her lungs.

All things considered, 23 at the hoop is doable – Coach Hiraguchi made only minor adjustments to the routine since the Worlds and pushed her to improve what was already there.

The point with her ball and hoop routines, she reflects, it’s that they’re sort of complementary.

If executed one right after the other – as it often happens – they tend to compensate each other in a way that’s always been reassuring to her: where ball music is mighty yet slow, hoop music is frilly but fast-paced. While her ball choreography is rooted in technicalities and the ability to build difficulty, hoop routine, with none of its risks valued more than 0.9 points, relies on execution and expression of Character. If dancing with the ball is taxing on her body, performing with the hoop allows her more time to recover strength.

It was Coach Hiraguchi’s idea to build the routines this way, like two pieces of a puzzle that fit together. It’s a comforting thought to have while she juggles between leaps, pivots, and spins.

She tries to let her body just do yet there’s a recurring pull in her thoughts to be better and faster and more gracious because she needs to shine in some way. She buries the nagging between a cartwheel on one hand and a balance with her hoop looping around her ankle but the urge comes back in full force and doesn’t recede even after her body stills into the finishing pose.

“You were antsy,” her coach whispers to her side at the kiss and cry.

“I did my best,” she hushes back. “Still… I recognize that something was lacking.”

This isn’t good.

If she keeps getting lost in a glass of water like this…

The final score gets broadcasted on the main screen: 23.550. The exhale she lets go is short and not enough to relax, not with a D score of 14.500 that brings down the 9.050 points for execution.

“Must’ve been the positions,” Coach Hiraguchi mutters. “You barely held them. All of them.”

Sumire tears her gaze away from the numbers, lowering her chin. It isn’t a bad result, per se, but given the situation she’s in… it’s barely enough.

“C’mon,” her coach says, “you need to get changed and drink something.”

Slipping into the cerulean leotard of her ribbon routine should be like wearing a second skin.

It’s long-sleeved and high-necked, but it’s more skin-color fabric scattered with blue and white fragments and hints of gold than any real tissue.

She checks herself in the mirror, a scowl on her face.

It’s the same attire she wore at the Worlds when she unlocked a ribbon final – she chose it exactly because of that. Yet all the blues and glitters and beads shining on her body grate against the goosebumps on her skin and her fingertips jolt with the need to tear the whole thing away.

With uneasy fingers, she loosens the rubber band of her slippers and secures them on her feet, then extracts the sky-painted ribbon from its pocket in the bag and heads out, into the corridor leading to the gymnasium from the right side.

An athlete from Bulgaria is coming back to the changing room, the second to last one of the rotation, so the very last one must be performing right now. Therefore, Sumire’s next.

She stops a few steps before the exit and waits for the hostess to accompany her on the stage.

According to the current ranking, she’s ninth with 48.500 points, squeezed between a gymnast from Bulgaria with 48.900 and one from Ukraine with 48.100. But there are still two more routines to go – the ribbon, which could turn the tables for the other gymnasts, and the clubs, which could turn the tables for her.

She clutches the handle and fidgets with a piece of the tail. Her ribbon scores in the past year have stayed consistent between 21 and 23 but maybe she could even aim at a 24. Her ribbon has always been stronger than most gymnasts’ and if she just manages to hit the upper portion of the bracket, that would give her more space to work and more peace of mind with the clubs.

She’s halfway there. She just has to avoid messing up.

The dark-haired hostess enters the dark zone at the end of the tunnel and gestures for her to follow. Sumire wets her lips and steps into the light, doing her best not to shield her eyes against it. Her heart is bouncing like crazy against her ribcage, and she has to control her breaths – slowly in, then slowly out – to push back the unsettling, squirmy realization that this is where the stakes are at.

“Performing at the 2020 Summer Olympics in women’s rhythm gymnastics qualification with the ribbon, representing Japan, Sumire Yoshizawa!”

She clenches and unclenches her fingers around the white handle of the ribbon and enters the floor area. With a knot in her throat, she stills into the starting position. She has to perform a miracle.

Time for a ball part II.

The signal beeps, and she has no time to lose. To a melody of melancholic piano and sad violins, she performs a forward walkover while throwing the apparatus, steps up the rotations under it at four instead of three, and turns the spinning catch into a cartwheel to unlock the ‘without visual control’ criteria.

She plays into the ease of a well-tested routine, leaning into all the practice she repeated, again and again, during the additional year the pandemic oh-so-kindly left her with. It’s a mix of muscle memory and conscious changes – like the 720° back split pivot she improved since the 2019 Worlds plus the 360° ring pivot Coach Hiraguchi implemented after the Asian Games of 2020. She performs them without the help of her hands, and in relève instead of on flat foot.

With her heels back on the floor, she trots into the series of three split leaps – one, two, three, precisely as she practiced. The music isn’t allowing her time for a fourth, so she just flows into the next two apparatus difficulties, throwing the ribbon with her foot rather than with her hands and catching it during acrobatics rather than with plain movements.

She makes the handle roll on her right hand and wrist, grabs the fabric with her left one, and throws it into a boomerang.

She dances under it. Something isn’t right with the trajectory. The way it travels into the air…

Please not a knot.

She cuts the spinning and catches it back, raises her body into a 180° backscale pivot, and feels the tail of the ribbon between her fingers.

A knot comes up into the fabric.

Shit. Shit shit SHIT.

She trots near the line delimiting the performing area, discards her ribbon, and picks up the plain white one that FIG always puts at the gymnasts’ disposal in cases like this.

With the knot gone from the apparatus but not from her guts and a bitter ache in her throat, she jumps back into the routine. The music signals the beginning of the step sequence, and she follows it with her body but in her mind, there’s only the mental calculus of just how many points she missed because of the knot and how many others she will have to sacrifice due to the lack of time.

The piano picks up again and so does she, trying not to screw up what remains of the routine. On the verge of the final risk, she wets her lips and breathes in.

She performs the throw from behind her shoulders, hops, and spins under it two times instead of three. The ribbon perfectly lands in between her knees, at least, and she stills into the finishing pose, chest splayed on the floor.

The round of applause is way shier. And of course it is – she messed up and messed up badly.

Restraining a groan, she forces her body to cooperate, retrieves her own ribbon from the sidelines, and drags herself to the kiss and cry.

Coach Hiraguchi simply pats the spot beside her, face tensed, and stays silent. Sumire sits, and she does the math.

Assuming that the knot formed after one of the two ADs before the pivot, she’d have from two to three elements nulled because of faulty apparatus, a full risk missing while she noticed the knot, two ADs and a boomerang not performed because she was running short of time, and possibly the step sequence not validated for the same reason – she wouldn’t bet she managed to stretch it to even 6 of the 8 seconds required.

It’s… a lot of points missing. Even a 20 seems implausible. All in all, a drop would’ve caused lesser damage. Knots disrupt routines and make everyone lose precious seconds with a Code of Point that standardized the practice of packing routines with difficulties to score more in less time.

The announcer calls her name and the led screen lights up… and it’s a 20.200.

“No way…” she mutters. Without the knot, without losing so much time, she would’ve scored maybe a 23.500 or a 24 even. She would’ve still had a chance.

She turns to the ranking board. Letters swim and swap in their places, too chaotic to read. She searches for colors, red and white. They’ve been pushed far beyond recovery. Her gaze doesn’t even make it to the partial score.

“Come here,” Coach Hiraguchi offers her an arm and helps her stand up. “Let’s talk elsewhere.”

She waves at the cameras, winks even, and drags Sumire away from the spotlight.

They slip into the corridor, away from the blinding lights and the buzz that even at reduced capacity left a ringing in her ears. Her fingers close around the crook of her coach’s elbow, and her other hand strangles the handle of the ribbon. She doesn’t let go, not even when the woman, instead of heading to the locker room, turns to the right into a corner of the passage that’s devoid of gymnasts warming up or revising their routines while waiting for the call. She glances around to make sure they’re alone and asks:

“How’re you doing?”

Sumire blinks. She weighs the roadblock in her throat and the burning ache in her limbs; her legs are especially overworked from the leaps and the pivots and the lower portion of her back is stiff and strained.

It should’ve been her moment of glory. Finally, at 20, she was supposed to shine.

“Tired.” Her voice comes out raspy. Her eyes sting. The waves of discomfort she pushed back thus far are eventually catching up, looming over her. “Tired of everything.”

She truly believed she could’ve made it. A part of her, at least. She’s been so foolish to believe that she could attempt to challenge opponents that have proved their worth times and times again in the past years while she didn’t even manage to qualify the proper way, not even with an extra 16 months of training. She’s pathetic. Surely everyone must have noticed it at this point. All the people she wished to inspire… her friends, her family, Akira… God, even Kasumi. They must be so disappointed with her right now—

“Sumire. Hang in there,” someone urges her.

Her vision is clouded. Her breathing is ragged.

A hand is squeezing her shoulder.

“Sumire Yoshizawa.”

It’s Coach Hiraguchi’s voice. Her face is blurred but a firm look is still recognizable from the shape of her eyebrows. “Hang in there,” she repeats. “Breathe slowly. In… then out.”

She follows the instructions. Oxygen flows through her airways and, as the breeze that comes to blow away the fog, it clears her head.

“Okay.”

“Good. Whatever you’re thinking: stop. You still have one left.”

“Still one left…” Sumire repeats, mindlessly.

Then nods. She makes a quick fix of the tears beading her lower lashes, trying not to smudge the dark burgundy lines tracing the shape of her eyes. She guesses she’s become pretty decent at this make-up thing through the years.

“Thanks, coach.”

It’s but a temporary barrier but… it should hold until she reaches her room in the Olympic village this evening. “Sorry for messing things up—”

Coach Hiraguchi shushes her with her hand.

“Later. Remember that time in Takasaki, all those years? We have plenty to discuss and we’ll have time for that later. Now focus on doing your best, as you’ve done so far.”

Sumire stretches out a smile and swallows down the tears.

“I’m getting changed, then.”

“Good. I’ll wait for you outside.” She looks at her as if pondering to add more, and smiles. “And Sumire… don’t assume that the grit with which you approached this competition and improvised changes in your routines is a mistake. We’ll find another way to make that work out for you in the end.”

This won’t do any good for her composure, though, if Coach continues to make her tear up. She’s not sure she deserves the kindness. Yet she bows, deeply.

“Yes ma’am!”

28.

A 28 is what could save her performance last minute. A miracle that’s far beyond her grasp; she can’t make that happen with the ribbon, she won’t even try with the clubs.

She grimaces.

In another world, another reality, a snap of two fingers would’ve made that possible. No, such a desperate measure wouldn’t have been necessary at all in the first place — she would’ve done her ribbon routine perfectly. Or even better, she wouldn’t even have needed to compete, would’ve stood bright and proud on top of the podium with none of the turmoil she’s undergone and still going through.

What a waste would that have been.

Striding on the runway towards a pity routine that won’t serve to get her closer to their dreams isn’t how she imagined the conclusion of the qualifications would go.

And yet. She’s doing it, broken heart and everything. Not with the smugness of Kasumi’s confrontational attitude but with the uncertain smile and tired eyes of Sumire. No tricks, no wild cards, no deus ex machinas.

She halts before the floor. And closes her eyes.

If she can bring her mind to stop thinking for just one minute and a half, just for those 90 seconds, maybe she can even enjoy what’s left.

The announcer calls for her. She positions herself in the center of the stage. And she lets go.

So, under the spotlight of the Ariake gymnasium, with a heart-wrenching base, she limits herself to following what her bones, joints, and tendons know by heart, allowing their memory to sync with the music, doing their best to evoke magic with her dancing.

It’s the last, truly last routine of her Olympics, her entirely personal finishing line, the final grain of rice in a bowl.

And her body is as light as the air.

The music stops, she waves at the meager public and much more numerous cameras, and bows. Her chest is tight, her throat knotted. A tiny fraction of her mind indulges in hoping.

Maybe at 23.

True to her word, Coach Hiraguchi doesn’t cover for her a third time.

The flashes are blinding and fill her eyes with dark little dots, and the shutters going off, again and again, sound more like the hail of Ann’s machine gun. Sumire fiddles with the lower hem of her jacket and restricts the impulse to shelter her eyes with the palm of her hand. Her legs are jelly. It’s no better that she has no idea how much this will go on.

“You were the only Japanese gymnast to qualify for the Olympics,” a masculine voice asks her. In the pit of cameras and spotlights, she can’t connect it to the person it belongs to. “How has it been, competing all alone, having the spotlight just for you?”

“Uhm…”

She swallows dry. Clears her voice. “In all honesty, I’m far from being the only one to deserve such an honor. Other athletes in Japan are just as skilled, if not even more, and they could very well aim at a medal. Being the only representative… I have to admit, it’s been a great source of pressure!”

She tries going for a laugh but it comes out very high in pitch.

“I hope I haven’t failed people’s expectations too much… in which case I’d be very sorry! Not that this is the last Olympic ever…”

The interviewer presses further. “Does this mean we’ll see you again in Paris in three years?”

She nibs at her lower lip. If years and years of training still haven’t shaped her into someone fit for this moment, maybe nothing ever will. It’s no use making official promises she probably cannot keep, failing even more people than she’d already had.

“I’ll have to consult with my coach. It isn’t a decision I should make alone.”

Another voice kicks in from the mass, deeper in tone than the first one: “Aren’t you concerned by the rising stars in the Junior scene? More than a few young promises are turning sixteen soon.”

Which is a falsely polite phrasing for: ‘wouldn’t you be too old to keep up?’

Like she doesn’t already know. As if she didn’t spend the first months of lockdown worrying over the delay of everything while new possibilities opened up for gymnasts who weren’t seniors in 2020 but would’ve been by 2021, while she would be stuck in an undefined middle ground of not having the lithe body she once had but still lacking the stamina and strength older gymnasts had.

She grinds her teeth and keeps her expression from schooling too much.

“I am living proof that inexperience can vain the hardest of training. At the end of the day, each person is their own. And 23 is still closer to 20 than 30.”

Silence falls. The beat of her heart fills it up. Maybe she did overstep.

A different voice, a female one, breaks the impasse: “Can you share a word on today’s performance?”

She tries her best to pull a polite smile. “There isn’t much to say, I think. It’s obvious that sixteenth wasn’t the placement I was after. Still, it was the first Olympic trial for me, so I’ll make sure to treasure today’s mistakes and work on improving overall as a gymnast.”

“I’m hearing a lot of future talks,” the voice laughs, “for someone who doesn’t want to make firm declarations.”

Sumire blinks. That laugh — she knows it. The trill of it, the lightheartedness. It’s been with her times and times again Takasaki.

She squints to make out the person behind it among the crowd of reporters. Hair darker than the night comes out, neatly pulled on the side by a French braid but with a loose strand near the ear and another coming up before the scrunchie securing the hairdo.

Miss Saki Morimoto.

“What are your thoughts regarding the inspiring role athletes have? Will you take that into account in your decision?”

Sumire gasps. How could she ever be a source of inspiration for someone? She can’t even deal with interviews properly.

“I-I fear I don’t have much to say, I’m sorry.”

The glint of a smile shines through the mass. Or maybe it’s just her mind pulling her pranks.

“I’m sure you must’ve noticed, but a lot of users on the web were cheering for you throughout the whole qualification phase and even during today’s performance. Someone is even going as far as saying your ball routine was more deserving than the ones from actual finalists despite scoring lower!”

Buckets of blood rush to her face. “I am… well, I am flattered! But I wouldn’t want to downplay the skills of other gymnasts. Truly, I believe everyone today worked very hard to be here and there were lots of deserving performances, not just my own.”

“Speaking of it,” another voice still adds to the pile of questions. “Is there someone, in particular, that you look up to? A present or past gymnast that is always a source of admiration?”

Sumire breathes out as if an entire boulder has just been lifted from her shoulders. Good, sure, let’s talk about other people, let’s stray the topic further and further away from herself.

She finally manages to activate autopilot mode. Her mouth runs. But stuck in a corner of her mind, Miss Morimoto’s words chirp in the background like summer cicadas. Is it true that she, even with her scarce results and glorious mistakes, managed to strike other people’s souls? Warm them and fill them with something positive that even she lacks?

It’s hard to believe. The journalist probably played that up in the hope of obtaining some stronger declaration out of her. Surely, it must be like that.

The flashes eventually stop. The number of the microphones thins. And the crowd moves on to another gymnast.

Beyond them, heartwarming as the promise of a massage and a bed after a hard day of training, Coach Hiraguchi smiles at her and opens her arms. And like a ball that rolls on the floor with no aim, Sumire finds her body staggering toward the woman and safely landing in the embrace. It smells like synthetic fabric and a hint of flowers. Toned arms close around her shoulders and break the last strand of control she’s been holding to.

She sobs: “I’m sorry.”

Hands caress her shoulder blades, drawing circles and patting lightly.

“Don’t be. However it went, I’m still proud of you.”

“I should’ve shined more. I trained so hard and it wasn’t enough.” She sniffs in the crook of her neck and disentangles from the hug to collect the tears spilling from her eyes with the tip of her index. “Seems that I truly lack what it takes to reach the top of the world…”

Coach Hiraguchi gently shakes her by the shoulders. “Hey, we have time for that. You don’t have to make this decision now. Go back to your room and rest. It’s no use talking about the future in this mood. All right?”

Sumire stops the hiccup shaking her chest right through her teeth but it still makes her shoulders jump. She nods.

“All right.”

The woman holds her tight again. “Try not to doubt everything again. I’ll keep repeating it as long as it takes for the concept to plant in your head: you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Braver, more skilled, more determined. You just have to see it.”

Sumire nods again. Be as it might… she just wants to go home and forget about everything for how long her brain allows her to rest.

The good thing about crying herself to sleep without having dinner is that she’s so exhausted that her body refuses to do anything else but rest and that she dreams about nothing at all. Which is good.

The bad thing about crying herself to sleep without having dinner is that a nasty headache is splitting her skull in two when she wakes up, that her eyes are grating-dry, and that her stomach manifests a black hole level of hunger. And it manifests it very loudly.

“Ugh…”

She groans and turns under the light sheets of the bed, which creaks heavily. Really, can a bed frame at the Olympic village rival Akira’s old futon on milk crates…?

On the nightstand, her phone buzzes intermittently, its vibration amplified by the hard surface. She stretches her arm to block the device and reject the call but ends up unlocking the screen. It’s from Akira.

She jolts up and answers it.

“Senpai?”

“Yoshizawa? Where are you right now?” Akechi’s voice pries. She frowns.

“Akechi-san? Is everything all right? Why are you calling from Akira’s phone?”

“It doesn’t matter. Please, answer my question. Where are you?”

“In my room?” She has no idea what else to say, or what is going on. She just wants to doze off until her stomach will attempt at her life if she doesn’t eat.

The line is silent.

“I’m in my room. At the Olympic village. Why are you asking?”

“Are you not going to watch the final today?”

His voice is as hard and cold as ice – it prompts a shiver down her spine and a twitch in her guts.

“I can always watch it from the stream. Does it matter?”

There’s an intake of air from the other side of the line, the only warning sign she gets.

“Are you kidding me? Of course it matters. Get up, get dressed, and drag your weeping body to the gymnasium. You only have to learn from your opponents and if you can’t put up the resolve to stop running from your delusions, your dream is done for. Get up and go watch the fucking final.”

Her head spins.

Her… dream?

She drags her legs beyond the edge of the mattress. Her bare feet brush against the planks of the floor, and the chill of it injects some more clarity into her mind. Her dream. The one she shared with Kasumi until Kasumi died and she had to proceed alone, and that same dream changed shape and it ended up becoming something slightly different than before.

That dream. Hers.

“I’m getting ready,” she murmurs at the telephone. A chuckle comes from the other side.

“This is what I wanted to hear.”

Sumire fishes her uniform sweatpants and hastily shoves her legs in.

“And God forbid you don’t hear what you want, right?”

Ah, here it is, the exhaustion point where she cannot filter thoughts anymore and becomes rude. Guilt pools at the base of her stomach and heats up her cheeks. It’s far from pleasant behavior and no other person than herself should experience it… but also, Akechi is purposefully poking at her. So.

“Oh, I see there’s still some spine left in you,” the obnoxious jerk remarks. “If you can toss the snark at me, then you have enough of it to face your life, properly this time. Do yourself a favor, keep the anger away from others and focus it on getting back on your feet, all right?”

Akira’s voice comes out from the speaker but it’s distant and covered by shuffling as if Akechi is fighting for control of their boyfriend’s phone.

“I’m already on my feet!” she retorts just to be spiteful while pulling the sweater’s zipper up. And just because she refuses to take all those jabs without stabbing back, she adds: “I’m going to the Ariake. Tell Akira I love him very much.”

Sumire closes the call and stops in front of the door. She could’ve told Akira herself but it’s always nice to rub the fact in Akechi’s face like that. Serves him right.

She turns the knob of her room’s door, grabs a bag with a leftover bottle of water in it from the hanging, slips the Olympic pass around her neck, and gets back into the fight.

Coach Hiraguchi is probably already there.

Chapter Text

The orchestral theme of the Olympics diffuses throughout the Ariake Gymnastic Center; the loudspeakers pump it directly into Sumire’s bloodstream. Even from the sidelines, up there in the tribunes, her heart swells.

A hostess guides the three medalists near the podium, two large steps with a central, higher one. Three girls place in front of each, and the announcer introduces the International Olympic Committee member – a man close in age to her grandad – and the FIG delegate – a woman in her sixties, maybe? – that will confer the medals.

The first winner leaps into her hard-gained spot and excitedly waves to the mostly empty bleachers. She proudly claims the bronze medal and lets it dangle from her neck as the most precious treasure in the world. One hand clenches it and the other closes around the petite composition of sunflowers the FIG delegate is offering.

The second one steps forward, the lonely half of a pair. Her arm raises without conviction, and a frown hardens her face. She hesitates before putting the medal where it’s supposed to be and doesn’t show it off once it’s there. Her eyes are glossy on the led screens.

The last one climbs the tallest step and accepts the highest honor with trembling fingers. The smile under her mask must be so wide and bright that it more than spreads up until the corner of her eyes. She greets the cameras with wide gestures, and her shoulders hiccup visibly.

The flags are raised: Belarus, Russia, and Israel.

The athletes turn around, complete a 360° of the usual saluting, smiling, and biting the medal – who with more enthusiasm, who with less.

Sumire chews at her lower lip. Once again, her view is from the sidelines, tucked in the shadows of anonymity, without even the pleasure of seeing it all up close, down there in the competition area reserved for the ten who actually made it to the final. Not only she wasn’t fit for the podium – even worse, she wasn’t fit for the race. It’s crystal clear. But she declared this would be an instructive experience, no matter how her throat aches, her breath is short and her limbs weigh.

So, she swallows down the tears.

Lesson number one: knots are hell. They could screw your qualification and they could also very well screw your podium and brand a glorious, flaming 4 th place right on your face when you’re expecting to be on the podium with your twin sister.

Lesson number two: their dream, Kasumi's and hers, was… naïve. ‘Stupid’ might be too strong of a word and it cuts too much like Akechi’s voice for a promise they made at no older than seven years old. But glancing at the podium, she cannot tear her eyes away from the Russian girl on the second highest step and see Kasumi. Of course, it would’ve been Kasumi. It’s almost embarrassing that it never struck her, not even with the disparity of skills, that they were never meant to stand on the same podium, let alone the same step.

Gymnastics isn’t made for ties. Goodness, she doubts it ever even happened once in all of the sport’s history. Despite what they swore when they were children, it has never been possible for them to eat that ice cream together.

A lonely tear traces the shape of her cheekbone and shatters into the tissue of the mask. To dominate the gymnastic world, together… it’s not how these things work. One of them was always bound to be on top.

A sore smile mindlessly spreads on her lips. If that goal wasn’t achievable from the start, if it was never meant to happen like they conjured it to happen as silly little girls… well. It’s not too bad that she spoiled it. It’s not too bad that she has no more chances to achieve that shared promise because her other half is missing.

Which leads to lesson number three: sharing the very top of the world as two is not possible. Defeating Russia and being on that same top – that is very much possible. Hardly doable. Highly implausible. But not impossible.

Savoring her spot away from the prying eyes of cameras and reporters, she inelegantly stretches. Her eyes still carry the hangover of crying so much, her muscles are sore from the overexertion of yesterday and there’s a ring pressing all around her head for not sleeping nor eating properly. Yet it’s like floating, suspended between reality and a dream, one of those conscious ones she can decide when to wake up from.

Coach Hiraguchi slides on the concrete bench to sit beside her and silently offers her a bottle of something frizzy. Grapefruit soda.

“Thanks, ma’am.”

The sweet-sour taste pops on her tongue and she downs a good quarter of it in one go.

“You still haven’t eaten,” her coach states. Not even the slightest hint of a question.

“Seems I’ve been busted…”

The woman sighs, shaking her head. “You used to have so much appetite, I swear. I get that you’ve been under a great amount of stress, but this isn’t good. You don’t build strength with air alone.”

“I know. I’m very sorry. I’ll… I want to get back on track.”

It comes out as an afterthought, like she’s just repeating a practiced speech out of memory and not because she’s truly committed. Except lessons number four and five slap her right in the face:

Contrary to what she stated during yesterday’s interview, if she goes for Paris 2024, it’s only her decision to make. Like Tokyo 2020 has been, four years ago.

And: if current Sumire couldn’t do it, it still has to be decided whether future Sumire cannot do it.

“You’re quiet,” coach Hiraguchi observes. “How are you doing?”

She adjusts the mask and exhales through it.

“I don’t know. Tired, sad, angry, fired up… I’m glad I came here to watch the finals, though. It wouldn’t have been the same from the streaming.” She squeezes the plastic bottle, which cracks in return. “I have a lot on my plate right now.” She turns to face her coach, who is still silently observing her. She meets deep black eyes that betray no emotion, and the mask covering half her face isn’t helping. Sumire holds the bottle even tighter. “I don’t want to make promises yet but… I’d like to visit Paris sooner than later.”

And there it is – the twinkle of Coach Hiraguchi’s eyes, brightened by a smile nested in the crinkles at the corners. The woman rummages into her backpack and fishes a thin group of flying papers.

“FIG sent me this newsletter. The updated Code of Points for 2022-2024 is now available. You can find the complete version on the website.”

Sumire picks it up. The paper rustles between her fingers as she skims through the pages. There are even the qualifications criteria for the next Olympics.

Sweat coats the base of her neck. Blood courses through her at an insane speed. It’s a lot. It’s so much – there are so many things she has to learn from zero, so many changes to adapt to. If just Kasumi was there…

If just Kasumi was there, she would get it. She would’ve known the feeling, that exact thrill on the tightrope between adrenaline and panic. And Sumire wouldn’t have to deal with everything on her own.

She gulps. Lesson number six delivers a pretty neat punch right into her guts.

That day in March, when they still were fresh from celebrations for their fifteenth birthday, she told Kasumi ‘You don’t get it, you’ll never understand how I feel,’ and it was a blatant lie. She was hurt and poisoned by envy and, sure, maybe she felt she had all the reasons and the rights in the world to feel that way… still, she ended up making the worst mistake of her life by running away. And if she kept doing that, Kasumi’s death would’ve been for nothing.

She jolts up like the devil itself pinched her.

“I’ll read them,” she gasps, “I’ll read and study and learn everything by heart but I have somewhere else to be right now. Will you excuse me, ma’am?”

Coach Hiraguchi scrutinizes her. “The National’s training camp is about to start in a few days. Can you give me your answer by then?”

“I promise!”

“Good,” she nods. “Then you’re free to go. If something is pulling you away, something that you need to understand, I’m not stopping you.” She stretches to pat her on the shoulder and Sumire recoils from it. “Just… keep in mind that you are not alone. Remember what I said, back in 2017? I cannot solve your problems for you, but if it’s about giving perspective on gymnastics… that, I can do.”

“Thanks, coach!” she bows, deeply, folds the papers, and stuffs them into the bag with the rest of her documents, telephone, and keys. Good thing she picked that up – she’ll need flowers. Hopefully, there will be at least one shop authorized to sell them that is still open in Aoyama.

She runs down the steps and takes the secondary exit, away from the buzzing of the microphones and clicking of the shutters still going off near the other side of the Ariake Stadium. The emergency exit door left open for the staff falls into place behind her shoulders, and sunrays pierce through thick strata of clouds here and there. Her lungs fill with the scent of wood and sea.

She stops in the shadow offered by the roof and takes out her phone.

Sumire: Hey there Senpai!
Sumire: And Akechi-san
Sumire : The all-around finals ended shortly ago. The ceremony is still going, but there is somewhere else I’d need to be right now.
Sumire: Would you mind coming with me?
Sumire : I don’t know for how long still the regulations will allow it.

Akira: sure, we’re coming

Akechi Goro: …fine.
Akechi Goro : Where and when?

Sumire: Aoyama cemetery in an hour
Sumire: See you there!
Sumire: And thank you very, very much

One fifty-minutes ride from Odaiba to Aoyama is enough to overturn the weather, apparently.

The air, scorching, now slides against her skin like a coat, making her walk through the street like crossing the pool of a hotspring. Her breath is ten times hotter trapped into the face mask, which is glued against her cheeks and nose from restraint and sweat.

Sumire clenches the bouquet of delicate azure and white flowers tighter and crosses the road.

Imponent trees peek out from the fence defining the border of the cemetery, and she scoots closer to the wall to gain as much shade as she can until an opening appears on the left, the same entry she went through with her family years ago: an iron gate open and a rope hanging in the middle forbidding cars and bikes to proceed further. And just a step behind it, Akira and Akechi are waiting, one with hands in his pockets and the other with his arms crossed by his chest.

“Hey there,” she waves her free hand. “Thank you for coming.”

Akira just smiles and raises his right arm to make room for her. And despite the heat, Sumire lets herself fall into the cocoon and grips the back of Akira’s grey t-shirt. He smells spicy and warm and good.

“How are you?” his voice tickles her ear.

“Exhausted… but better.”

“For what’s worth, I still think you were amazing.”

Blood raises to her cheeks just as pain knots in her throat, the umpteenth battle between contrasting emotions that never left her since the Olympics began. She simply nods against the fabric, inhales that comforting, hugging scent deeply, and lets go of her boyfriend. She exchanges a look with Akechi, who is simply observing her.

“Are you sure you’re feeling like doing this?”

His expression doesn’t change but the tone of the question has something rhetorical to it. She starts wondering if he ever went to visit Kasumi’s tomb since the accident but not a single logical reason why he should’ve done it comes to her mind.

“I’m okay. Let’s go, it’s quite the walk from here.”

She circumvents the rope barrier and ventures into the cemetery, her sneakers tapping against the cobblestone. The scents of greenery and rocks and mown grass spreads through her nostrils, and with trees blocking off the sun and no asphalt to absorb the heat the atmosphere is a few degrees cooler.

A panel with a discolored map stands half-secluded among two evergreens. Every area is highlighted in a different color, with a red dot marking the entry point and stark white paths branching out from there. She traces the itinerary with her index, dusting off the old memory of more than five years ago. God, five whole years. She’s been such a shame to her family.

Clutching the bouquet with one hand and the strap of her bag with the other she proceeds straight down the road delimited by short wooden fences, between the chirp of cicadas and the tweet of birds passing by, not a single noise from outer Tokyo to be heard. A gentle breeze dries the sweat on the exposed part of her face and makes the longer leaves of the bouquet swing against her wrist.

An orange sign with resin stains on it signals the beginning of the foreigner area up ahead, so Sumire turns to the left on a secondary path where graves grow closer and more masked visitors are tending to their families’ tombs.

Another path crosses her treading, and she turns left again. Trees are more scattered in this area to allow for more useful space, it shouldn’t be difficult to spot the one she’s looking for.

A young cherry tree. It stands behind the tomb and near a traditional rocky lamp, high enough now that Sumire cannot touch its topmost branches even if she raises on her tiptoes. It’s a pity she missed the bloom for yet another year. It won’t happen again. At least it seems to be growing well, the oval leaves are bright and green and there are so many of them…

One hiccup disrupts her train of thought. And another. And another.

The sobbing grows stronger. She shuts her eyes and pushes the flowers closer to her chest so their sweet smell can climb up her senses and be everything her mind can focus on. Someone pulls her against a solid weight. Another body steps by her side so that her shoulders brush against it every time she blubs.

It’s so much. Her chest, her lungs, it all hurt so much, and she wonders if it will ever stop – if the perception of something vital missing despite her limbs and organs being very much fine will ever die down. It’s like that time she cut herself while preparing her bento and the injury kept reopening because she needed to use her fingers to do things.

In the end, though, it healed. Gone in a month without even leaving a scar.

She breathes in to speak and coughs out pollen.

“I miss her. I miss her so much…”

Not because she was stronger, bolder, more determined, or just the best sister in the world. Not because she would’ve known what to do (would’ve she, though?) or because she always won in the end (did she, truly?).

Just because Kasumi was her sister. And she was a gymnast. And as much as Sumire has her coach, or Akira, or her parents and family and friends, and even Akechi, no one is her sister and no one is a gymnast currently undergoing the crawl up the slope she is climbing. The bitterness of not doing enough, the physical strain on her body, the lightheadedness of looking at the future and knowing that she still has a chance. Kasumi would’ve known that all, without Sumire needing to spell a syllable. And Kasumi would’ve had her back. Despite competing, in the end, one against the other. Like she always had.

Sumire lowers her mask, which dampens the underside of her chin and neck, and sniffs.

“I’ve been so stupid. All these years. How could I have not seen it?”

The stone plate is dirty with the dried residual of rain, and the incisions ‘Yoshizawa Kasumi’ and ‘1999 – 2016’ have long thin stains coming down from the letters and numbers. Sumire delicately scrolls away the arm surrounding her, dives into the pocket of the sweatpants for a paper tissue, and swipes off the grosser marks. Then she kneels on the grass, retrieves the dusty vase from beside the tomb, and places the bouquet in it. She uncaps a bottle of water and pours what remains of it into the glass, to at least try making sure that the flowers survive more than a few hours through the heatwave.

Crumpling the thin plastic between her fists, still crouched down, she lightly swings on her heels.

“I am done running. Even if I wasn’t pretending to be her anymore, I still refused to face the fact that Kasumi is gone and… I cannot simply erase her. I will never be able to erase her from my life.” She brushes her fingers against the soft petals. “She will forever be a part of me. Because we were sisters, and she loved me dearly, even if I refused to see it at some point. And ignoring that… it hasn’t helped me much in figuring out who I am or what gymnast I wanted to be.”

She raises to stand, slowly. The joints of her knees are still sore from the exhibition. She glances at the tomb one last time and turns to face Akira and Akechi.

“I guess if it’s not Kasumi then it’s other people, huh? It’s time I learn not to define myself by using others…” She exhales and it’s a long one. Most of the pressure finally evaporates with it, and she can pull an honest smile. “Thank you for coming with me. I deeply appreciate the support from both parties.”

Akira just shrugs. “Eh, it was nothing. Glad I got to see your character development moment, as Futaba would put it.”

Akechi drags a hand across his face. “Are you serious? That’s cringe.”

“Ah! I see I’m not the only one she’s been rubbing off on.”

Akechi groans. Sumire laughs, from the bottom of her heart.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Hey!” Akira pouts, “I am allowed to say all the cringy stuff I want and never lose my charm.”

“Yes, you are,” she concedes.

“No, you’re not,” Akechi protests.

Sumire launches herself towards Akira, who welcomes her in his arms with a surprised ‘oof’ and does that thing he did on top of Shujin’s rooftop, back on the day of her graduation, where he yanks Akechi into the hug by his wrist despite everything, despite Akechi giving off an even louder ‘oof’ – but still, he doesn’t retreat. So Sumire closes her eyes and savors the mix of spice and citrus, warm and fresh together, and her own sweet, fruity scent that is maybe a little too sweaty for her liking. She indeed is lucky.

The heat makes it hard to keep their position, and they disentangle from one another. With a serious look on his face, Akechi adds:

“If I may give you unsolicited advice, your public speaking skills could use some improvements.”

She presses her lips tight together. It’s… not untrue.

“Go on.”

“You’re too insecure. Journalists can see it, and as soon as you’re famous enough, they will have no qualms about using it against you. Thus, the first thing to keep in mind is this: you have the authority. Aside from exceptional circumstances, interviewers ask you something because they don’t know it. They may have their theories, sure, but unless it doesn’t come out of your mouth they can’t confirm a thing – not by legal means, at least. So, trust yourself to always know more than them. Even if they ask you something unpleasant for the sole sake of making you struggle, you have no obligation towards them.”

Her head spins – she wouldn’t have guessed she should’ve been taking notes.

“Thank you… for everything. I still am not used to being a public figure, I guess.”

He shrugs, but a knowing smile stretches on his lips. “I am no expert in gymnastics but when it comes to winning the favor of the public… I believe I may have some other piece of advice or two to share.”

Her body ignites, throwing itself closer to Akechi like he’s holding food to a starved person.

“Really? That would help me greatly!”

He frowns and his shoulders flinch back but he doesn’t retreat, and neither does she.

“Well, you must show yourself first. And no, meetings and championships aren’t enough. People will see you competing from afar and start to mistify you. It’s 2021, you have to be on social media. Everyone loves to see their idols and believe they’re closer to them than they truly are. A regular posting schedule might be too much to handle at first, so for now, I’d say you should just share what you feel like sharing that isn’t too personal – but I trust your judgment on that.”

Her stomach clenches at the thought of putting herself out there – as if she hasn’t already done that for most of her life now. What could be a few more people on the internet… right?

She masks her grimace with a bow.

“Thank you so, so much Akechi-san,” she speaks softly, which makes Akira snort.

“Will you two stop being so formal already? It’s been more than two years.”

They both breathe in to argue. Her eyes cross rusty red ones, mere shades darker than her own – maybe Akira has a type. They both desist. She adjusts the bag on her shoulder and turns toward the main path back to the entrance.

“It’s time for me to return to the village and gather my things. The closing ceremony for the Olympics will come in a few days and after that, I’ll go back home and start packing for the National’s training camp.” Just thinking about that makes her body feel light. There’s just so much work to do. Her mouth is dry when she says: “It’s the first step towards Paris.”

Akira whistles slowly. Akechi nods with a thin smirk.

“Let’s go, then,” they say together, and glare at each other for saying it together. Sumire giggles and starts the jog back to bigger, louder Tokyo. She stops one last time to glance at Kasumi’s tomb – just a rocky epigraph under a young cherry tree with a bouquet of azures and whites to adorn it.

A gust of wind blows in her direction, fresh despite the heat against her sweaty cheeks and forehead.

“I’m going, I’m going,” she mutters under her breath, and she resumes her treading.

It’s with a lot of tiptoeing and controlled movements that Sumire slips out of her room and opens the door across the corridor just enough to squeeze in. The air is stuffy in Kasumi’s ex-bedroom, smells like wood and dust and emptiness, and she blindly touches the wall to find the switch that only flips on half the lights.

Crude bareness comes into sight, with faint squares and circles committing to memory where furniture had once been and the muted pink wallpaper bubbling and coming off here and there. The only piece that survived is a white dresser, specular of her own. The rest is all unused items, forgotten boxes of clothes and house relics, and some of Sumire’s old gymnastic gear that she outgrew with time.

Keeping her steps light, she approaches the dresser. The top drawer resists pulling, and she has to force her hand until it yanks open with a heavy metallic drag.

Sumire turns to the door. Every cell of her body is still, and in her ears pound blood and the aftermath of old medals shuffling. No signs of her parents waking up come from the corridor. Good.

Nibbling her lower lip, she skims the medals with the pad of her fingers. Guilt pools at the base of her stomach – she’s acting like a thief. Obviously, she could’ve waited once the day came over, and done this as any other normal person would, but the itch to set things right scratched her guts enough while she still had to be at the Olympic village. After coming back home, with half her luggage left to unpack and no capacity for sleep in sight, there was no way she could’ve wasted more time. The thoughts of the previous days were still too fresh in her head and she was done waiting for the right time to come. The right time was now.

Sumire fishes out one small metallic circle, disentangling the laces from the rest. It’s so faded it barely resembles silver, and the year in the date only reads up to 20. Her very first podium.

She clasps it and opens the second drawer, which concedes much more smoothly than the previous. Clubs, ribbons, and ropes are neatly folded inside. She hovers her palm over a white and pink pair of clubs – she remembers them, Kasumi won her last Junior gold with them – and the upper portion disappears beneath her open palm. It’s been years since she as much as saw clubs this small from up close.

Her head swims, forcing her to take a few steps back. With just the tip of her fingers, she pushes the drawer closed. She doesn’t dare look at how short the ribbons must be compared to the one she uses now. The one Kasumi, too, would’ve used now.

Sumire skips the third drawer entirely. There are probably just leotards in there.

The fourth though… it’s a surprise.

It’s mostly empty and dusty, and its only occupants are a cloud-shaped cushion, a faded-out, pinky star plushie, and a paper roll. She places the medal on top of the dresser and unrolls the crinkled paper: it’s a map of the Milky Way, with a dedicated section focusing on the Solar System. Her eyes prickle with tears made of hurt and nostalgia and fondness. It was their seventh birthday, they were gifted tickets for the planetarium in Ikebukuro, and Sumire got to choose not one but two souvenirs. Because Kasumi proposed so.

She smiles, flipping the poster between her fingers. Somehow, she’s always been convinced they had been thrown away.

“Thanks…” she whispers, without exactly knowing to whom. If she has to guess… her mom, probably. Out of the three of them, she always put the most effort to keep Kasumi’s memory alive. Once, when the pain was fresh and bleeding and ugly, even before she went seeing Dr. Maruki, she told Sumire it was on her to decide what to do with it. ‘Erasing it isn’t possible, darling,’ she said when Sumire threw her last tantrum before collapsing into apathy, ‘even if you try all your life.’

Sumire gets that now. It only took her five and a half years.

Gritting her teeth, she turns back to opening the third drawer, and a scent of synthetic, clean fabric comes out of it.

Here’s the leotard with the red glitters Kasumi used in her first recital. Next to it, two identical silver ones. And the pink one with the pearly accents that had become her favorite in her last period… the one Sumire was convinced was hers. From the tiniest to the largest, surely nothing can fit her anymore.

She lifts the pink leotard, letting it unfold in the air. Wearing it again is a no, a rather big one, and not for its size. But what if she incorporated a bit of pink in one of her next costumes? A way of taking Kasumi with her under the spotlight, not by being her but by paying her respect, dancing as only Sumire can but with a hint that says ‘Kasumi has been here, too.’

She jolts and almost lets go of the fabric. Like an explosion kicking off the next one, an idea forms in her mind. If becoming Kasumi wasn’t enough, and erasing Kasumi hasn’t been enough, and both of those approaches were very much wrong, then Sumire has to carry on Kasumi’s memory the only way she knows how to: with gymnastics. If each routine can portray a story, there’s no way Sumire can’t tell the tale of Kasumi and her. Not with Kasumi’s moves or charisma but with Sumire’s very own perspective and grace.

She swore to climb on top of the gymnastic world. She wished to inspire people. It’s about time she stops avoiding her past and starts shaping that pain into something that can shine for others and entice them as strongly as it kept her going all these years. Music and risks and four apparatus will be her tools and this time, she won’t damn well stop until her routines are perfectly-crafted tales.

Sumire puts everything back and closes the drawers. Before exiting the room, she throws a final glance at it while her fingers brush against the lights switch. It’s silly that she doesn’t want to return to her bed. It’s not like Kasumi will disappear from her life more than she already had if she does.

“I will show them. What I’m capable of.”

It’s an oath to her sister as much as it is to herself.

And it strikes her, what Hiraguchi might have meant all those years ago, when she said Kasumi always saw Sumire as her rival, as the push to always do better, always aiming higher. While Sumire was too occupied resenting her for her talents and her medals, Kasumi only wanted to be the best version of herself and show Sumire how much she inspired her.

Sumire flips the switch off, and the room returns to being pitch-black.

It won’t be easy. She still has to come a long way as a gymnast. But at least she has a path now, a project to truly make something out of that longing for her missing half: not a replica, not a chain, but a source of inspiration and motivation.

Chapter Text

Leather shoes squeak and thud on the parquet floor, following the pacing of Japan Gymnastics Association’s president back and forth, and they fill in the gaps of the pauses of his speech. His voice, amplified from the microphone, echoes through the mostly-empty space of Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium’s main hall.

“Of course,” Mr. Uehara says, “Yoshizawa-san’s efforts to enter the Olympic final are to be recognized.”

Sumire holds back a grimace.

There’s a parquet floor. Blinding lights are hanging from the ceiling. They’re in a gym, standing in lines.

All in all, it’s almost like being back in those school assemblies held in Shujin’s auditorium. Even with pairs of eyes locking on her as Sumire gets singled out.

Thankfully, the president goes on.

“Be aware, however, that to push our Country forward in the sport, it’s necessary that more than one gymnast makes it to the selections for the next Olympic final. It’s not a goal previously unachieved on our part, so let us all work together toward that. The new Code of Point has been recently released and, starting next year, new talents from the Junior division will enter the Senior team. I expect you all to welcome them accordingly and push them to be their very best like your Seniors did with you.” His eyes, half-cut by a slim pair of glasses, still stick on Sumire, making a chill run down her spine. “I firmly believe that Paris is within our grasp.”

A chorus of acknowledgment raises from the gymnasts, reverberating throughout, reaching deep within her bones.

Mr. Uehara lightly bows to them. “Now, a word from Mrs. Ishikawa Reina, our coordinator for Rhythm Gymnastics.”

He steps aside, handing over the microphone, and a woman as tiny as exuding authority salutes them from the temporary stage. Her small round eyes survey the audience and, as she starts speaking, a hand moves to her head to smooth the side of her tight ponytail to utter perfection.

“First of all, thank you for your speech, Mr. Uehara. I believe we all have to take to our heart your encouragement for the upcoming season. Now, I will proceed to briefly revise our next steps before I leave each of you to meet with your coaches.” She clears her voice, clenching the microphone harder. “Our next big gathering will be the World Championships in Kitakyushu this fall. We’ll be the host Country once again so I recommend you all perform to the best of your abilities. We’ll still be working with the current Code of Point until December 31^st but this is no reason not to start elaborating on the new routines you’ll be performing from January. While a part of our training camp will focus on strengthening your skills based on your current exhibitions, we value that you learn the changes made to the Code so that you can adapt your future moves to it and create something we can all be proud of.”

She passes the microphone in her other hand, using the now-free one to adjust her grey blazer.

“Let’s start with the biggest change: like what happened between 2009 and 2012, Artistry points will be back into score calculation. This parameter will start fixed at the value of 10, subtracting every fault from it. The updated metrics will then be Difficulty, Execution, and Artistry, minus the penalties. I trust that this will favor those of you who can count on strong expression and character. However, please bear in mind that this Code still features uncapped D-score, so Difficulty of Body and Apparatus are still the way you are expected to gain most of your points.” Her eyes, too, linger on Sumire, who silently swallows back a groan – as if she’s the only athlete here!

Mrs. Ishikawa goes on.

“You’ll find that important sections that previously fell under Execution Jury will be overlooked by the newly instituted Artistry Jury – this includes Dance Steps, Character, Attitude changes, and many others. Be warned, though, that this Code is much more explicit regarding what counts as a fault. We can safely assume that fewer benefits of the doubt will be given.” She clears her voice again as her eyes sweep over all the girls present. “Other major changes include the score calculation for pivots – which come back to being a valuable asset to be used in routines – and the incentive to combination and links between different Difficulties.”

She lets silence fall so that they all can absorb the words and signal their understanding.

“Very well.” She nods, bowing lightly. “I’m leaving you to meet with your coaches. Work with them to create something beautiful and let us all strive together as a team to be the pride of Japan and inspire those watching us. Thank you.”

A composed round of claps thrums through the stadium, empowered by the emptiness, hitting hard surfaces and bouncing back to them in an echo. It lingers into Sumire’s ears as a low ring, and it’s kind of dizzying.

She breaks formation and strides away from the small stage they built for the speech, nearing the opposite side of the area where a chessboard of mats for training has been assembled – and where Coach Hiraguchi is raising from a bench to meet with her.

“Formal as always,” she comments with a smile, nodding to where Mr. Uehara and Mrs. Ishikawa are getting down from the stage. “Not that one can expect much different from them. So, what do you think?”

She wets her lips, light goosebumps just now subsiding. “I sure felt everyone’s expectations.”

“And?”

Sumire breathes deeply. The follow-up is right there on her tongue, heavy on the muscle and waiting to be said out loud. It should be easy, were it not for the fact that giving hope a voice creates commitment.

Coach Hiraguchi is eyeing her, expecting. It’s a silly thing to be this firm on. She probably knows this – and knows how important it is that Sumire says it, too.

Pushing each word out, she settles on, “But I want to train hard and improve so that I can meet them.”

It sits between them, charged like a grand throw of the ball but just as precise.

“Very well,” her coach nods. “Now we can have our talk. Come, sit here.”

She lowers on the bench and sits with her right leg over to the other side. She pats the spot in front of her.

Sumire mirrors her movement. Her eyes lock with the dark pits of her coach’s pupils as her mind works to tune out the chattering of gymnasts talking and the soft thuds of clubs and hoops being jostled around. The tension squeezes her ribcage like a vine; it tightens around her lungs and throat, making her heart beat faster. She squirms on the seat as if trying to escape it.

“I’m ready.”

Coach Hiraguchi gives her a final nod.

“Then let’s start from the beginning. You know I value your approach to this more than anything, so tell me: why do you think you didn’t qualify for the final?” She raises her palm to stop Sumire’s instinctual response before it’s spoken. “I don’t mean the knot. That is a mistake that we’ll make sure doesn’t get repeated.”

She shrinks a little in her posture, nibbling at her lower lip. The unpleasant feelings of that day surface back, sitting in the pit of her stomach.

“If I’m being completely honest, even without the knot in the ribbon, I would’ve only qualified for the final by sheer luck. Or if the other gymnasts closer to my scores had ended up with fewer points than me. My Difficulty score has always been lower than my peers, after all.”

“It goes beyond the technicalities,” Coach Hiraguchi adds, scolding her expression. She crosses her arms before her chest. “Skills alone mean nothing if your nerves can’t handle the pressure, just like a stellar D-score amounts to nothing without at least a decent Execution. As long as you stay convinced that you’re not capable of achieving this goal, you won’t.”

“I am aware…”

Muscles in her lip jerk, quivering, and she bites them to keep them in check. But her Coach isn’t finished.

“I know you’re aware. I believe you’ve been for a long time, now. You have to start to sincerely believe that, too, though.” The crease between her forehead distends, along with the cut of her eyes. She raises a hand and grasps at Sumire’s shoulder, firm and grounding. “You already climbed a long way. The Sumire I first met would’ve been too scared to even think about a meeting this important, while the Sumire of five years ago had to gather all her courage just to confront the qualification for Nationals. You’ve grown so much. You’re capable of so much more. But it won’t do you any good if I’m the only one seeing this.”

Sumire’s face is hot. Her nose itches. There’s moisture at the corner of her eyes.

She shifts her head aside, looking away.

“I’m trying. It’s just… not so immediate.”

“Nothing about this is. What about the changes you made on the spot to your routines to increase your score? Where was that coming from?”

“That…!” She recoils, shaking her head. “The other gymnasts were scoring so high. I didn’t want to fall behind. I truly wished to push my limits to gain the best possible score.”

Coach Hiraguchi sighs. “To think I even told you not to obsess over their performances.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t get me wrong. As I’ve already told you, the guts you’ve pulled out weren’t a mistake. And to a certain degree, it’s healthy to want to outmatch your competitors so much that you feel the need to up your game. What you should quit is defining yourself and your performances only in comparison to others.” She gently shakes her by the shoulders, giving her a pointed look. “You’re here today because you’re aiming for the next Olympics. I’d rather see you lose a podium because you made a mistake on your own accord than because you were more focused on others’ performances than your routines. Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good. You have enough experience by now to start acting and embracing the role and mentality of a mature gymnast. This includes freaking out the least possible.”

Sumire swallows down, nodding slowly, her body flaring up. After all the years, Coach Hiraguchi still manages to be terrifying even when she’s lowkey complimenting her.

“Yes, Coach.”

“And speaking of this: your primary task for this week is to strengthen your routines both Difficulty and Execution wise. But especially regarding the Difficulty. On the other hand, you’re also tasked to come up with four different concepts for the routines you’ll be executing starting next year. Preferably with music. You’re old enough to pick the themes by yourself.”

She clenches the hem of her navy t-shirt hard, nails digging into the Aeon Club logo embroidered near the side. Both dread and excitement fight into her chest. Wasn’t this what she wanted ever since coming back from visiting Kasumi?

“I will do my best, Coach Hiraguchi.”

“I’ll be counting on that. I won’t accept anything that isn’t coming directly from you and what you wish to say with each routine.”

“Of course!”

“Very well. Now that you’re fired up you can begin with the usual stretches. Then we’re going to focus on your clubs routine today. It’s normal for a gymnast to have a preference, but the discrepancy between your clubs and the other apparatuses isn’t acceptable anymore. We’re going to fix that, first and foremost.”

With an inner cry, Sumire nods, throwing her leg on the other side of the bench, and stands up.

She removes her shoes and slips out of the leggings, picks up the chunky bag with everything in it, and strides to a free spot among the mats that are already being used by the rest of the gymnasts of the individual division. She goes through her stretching exercises, a booting sequence that warms her body up, making sweat appear on her forehead and thinly coating the skin of her arms, ingrained in her muscle memory by years of nearly daily repetition. Fluidity replaces stiffness. A simmering prowess, ready to burst into a leap or a balance, takes place where there was just stillness.

Heaving, she lowers near the bag to pick up the clubs – the sky blue ones she uses for training, dented and with the handles haloed by sweat and time. They feel like a third and fourth upper limb.

She spins one with her palm and experimentally throws it up. The club rotates mid-air before her eyes, spinning on its axis until its handle lands square between her open fingers.

Slowly, she raises to stand with her hand closing around the longer portion of the apparatus like the hilt of a sword. It doesn’t weigh like Violet’s rapier. Shape, balance, extension – everything is off. Sumire’s reflexes can’t sync with Violet’s combat skills anymore. Yet, there’s one single movement that keeps playing before her eyes: that time in the Casino when she followed Akira and his group and got to fight alongside him.

She loosens and tightens the grip around the handle of the club, wondering how would it feel to throw it the same way she sent her rapier flying through a cognitive room to pierce through a masked shadow foe.

She resumes spinning the club with her fingers and throws it up enough to give her time to perform a single backward walkover catch on the spot. But as she presses her palms down onto the mat, the club she isn’t using digs into soft flesh, making her stifle a moan. She lands her first foot and stretches her free hand to catch the flying club before it hits the floor.

She brings the two pieces closer to eye level, clenching one in each hand like two sticks of the drums.

She can’t make Violet’s movement work with these. The throws wouldn’t work the same and besides, there are a lot of asynchronies required to score better with the clubs, complex rotations, and very few windows for moves that could recall a poke or a slice or a jab of a rapier.

Mh.

Clubs are often associated with bolder routines but if those won’t do, maybe the ball? The ribbon might be too complex to handle in that context… oh, but with the ball, she couldn’t be too bold or she’ll get deductions for gripping it the wrong way—

“Is everything alright?”

Coach Hiraguchi observes her from the side of the mat, arms resting crossed behind her back. Her lips are slightly pulled up and her eyes sparkle under the artificial lights as if she’s looking at something both endearing and amusing.

Sumire nods, straightening her body to a more elegant attitude, ready for training.

“Yes, Coach.”

“You seemed lost in thought. Were you imagining a new addition to this routine?”

Busted.

“Y-yes, I suppose. Something like that.”

“Let’s start by revising what’s already there first, what do you say?” She chuckles both with her mouth and her eyes. “You’ll have later today to let your imagination run free. For now, keep focused on the basics.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Sumire stills into the starting position of her current clubs routine, notes of achingly emotional music already starting to play in her head so she can follow the rhythm.

But before she lets go of that spark of inspiration entirely, the image of her hoop traveling forward, quick and precise like Violet’s rapier, strikes her mind with a lethal blow and refuses to completely fade out all day.

Sumire hovers the card above the magnetic lock, and her hotel rooms open with a click.

She pushes in and slides the key card into the holder on her left, causing the air conditioning to whir to life and the lamps to wash the room into a bright white light. She flinches back, blinking, and lets the heavy bag slide off her shoulder to deposit on the brown moquette floor with a soft thud.

“Finally…” she mutters, stepping out of her shoes. She slides her feet into the new pair of slippers offered by the hotel and drags her body straight to the bathroom door on the right side of the corridor. Flicking the light on, she finds her reflection staring back at her from the mirror above the sink: sweat-sticky hair, a messy bun, slightly unfocused eyes, and a body too hunched forward to belong to one of Coach Hiraguchi’s pupils.

“What about beauty and grace, huh?” she murmurs and starts stripping.

Once dirty clothes are hauled into the appropriate bin, ready to be washed at the laundromat past the hotel hall, Sumire steps into the shower area. The tub in front of her, polished and deep and with head support, is luring her in, a siren’s call from the sea.

She turns to the shower’s dial and pushes it left on lukewarm. If she enters that tub now, she’ll end up exiting tomorrow morning for breakfast.

She closes her eyes and faces the rainshower, letting clean water slide down her face and tired body. God, there’s not a single muscle in her that doesn’t ache. How good would it feel to have one of Akira’s massages, especially around her lower back…

Flaring up, she turns the water to a cooler temperature. That should ground her. Not letting her lose focus. What was she even thinking about?

With her jaw clenched and her forehead furrowed, she scrubs and washes away today’s fatigue, trying to get her body to relax while her mind fences off memories of Akira’s delicate hands kneading into her neck and shoulder blades, massaging her back while whispering sweet nothings, all that time back on the wake of the departure to her first Worlds…

“Ugh!”

She shakes her head and turns the water off. What would Coach Hiraguchi say, knowing she’s fantasizing about her boyfriend instead of doing her assignment?!

… just playfully scold her, probably. She seemed to like Akira, after all. And Sumire does miss him. Aside from that trip to visit Kasumi after the Olympic final – and what person brings their boyfriend to the tomb of their dead sister – it feels like forever since they spent time together, between her training and pandemic regulations.

She chews on her lower lip. Glances at the panel displaying room temperature – the clock marks nearly 10 pm. It’s late. She doesn’t want to disturb but…

“Oh, come on Sumire.”

She jerks herself away from the impasse and turns the air conditioning off again so she can avoid drying her hair.

Outside the bathroom is chillier enough nonetheless for goosebumps to form on her skin, itching against the harsh-clean cotton of the bathrobe. She treads towards her luggage, nestled near the single bed, and fishes out her t-shirt and pajama pants. Positioning in front of the main mirror that faces the lone bed, she scrubs the towel against her head and braids her hair tightly. Still damp like this, it stays decently compact.

She goes back to the abandoned bag in the entryway and retrieves her phone from the side pocket. The battery is nearly out, so she plugs it up into the charger. Her thumb hovers on the screen, above Akira’s contact info.

She presses down and hurls herself on the bed as the call sends. The speakers beep, waiting for the other side to pick up.

“Hey, Sumi?”

Akira’s tone is quiet and soft-spoken as if he doesn’t want to make too much noise. She savors the moment, pressing her body harder against the high mattress as blood and chemicals course through her veins.

“Hey. Sorry if it’s late. Am I disturbing you?”

“You never disturb me.”

Such a default thing to say. She giggles nonetheless.

“You’re being hushed. I thought maybe it wasn’t a good time to speak.”

“Oh, no, not at all. Goro’s in a work call in the living room, though, and our walls aren’t exactly sound-proof.”

She frowns. “A work call? At this hour?”

“Says the champion of training until late. I bet you’ve just come back from the gym.”

“T-that’s…!” she tries to protest but can’t manage more than a tiny whine. “I only intend on making the most out of this training camp. Our coordinator from JGA will be present all week to supervise our improvements – I can’t let her down!”

“Giving it your all as always, I see.”

She rolls on her back and stretches her sore muscles until the taut burning gives her dopamine relief as soon as she stops.

“Yes. I want to show what I’m really made of. I know she can give me a new perspective on my performances and I intend to treasure that. It’s just the first step of this new climb.”

“Look at you,” he huffs with a hint of fondness in his tone. “You sound so determined. I’m really proud of you.”

Her cheeks heat up. She can’t help but grin at the ceiling.

“Thank you. I really, truly want to do better. To be better.” She drags her feet across the sheets, bending her knees. Everything’s so clean it’s almost rough. “Coach Hiraguchi says I should stop comparing myself to others because it undermines my confidence. She’s not wrong, I guess… it’s just that, sometimes, I cannot help it. It’s as if—”

She cuts herself off, too embarrassed to say it out loud.

It’s as if I can’t know my worth if not in relation to other people.

And there it is, that knot in her throat. Damn. She didn’t want the conversation to go this way.

“Sorry. I should stop brooding over this.”

“No, Sumi – don’t worry. I don’t mind. Changes don’t happen overnight. It’ll take time but I can already see you’re doing better than before.” He quiets down, elaborating on the next thing to say. “And besides – well, maybe I shouldn’t be the one to speak, but I don’t believe that comparisons are always bad. Especially if they actually push to be better. Competing spirit and all that, am I right?”

“I think you’re a bit biased about this.”

“Hey, no fair!” he laughs but cuts himself and reduces the noise to a chuckle.

Sumire chuckles back. And as the quiet settles once more between them, the bundle of thoughts in her mind levitates once again.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

She breathes in and pushes the words out before she can think twice.

“Coach Hiraguchi tasked me with coming up with four concepts for my new routines for the next season. According to her, I’m experienced enough to propose ideas of my own. I’m not sure where to start, though. I think I had a flash of… something, today, while I was training, but I can’t figure out how to proceed from there.”

“Well, I’m no expert with gymnastics stuff so I’ll help how I can. How did you do this in the past?”

“Coach Hiraguchi used to assign me my routines. Even after that first round of Nationals, the one where I was still performing with Kasumi’s tracks, she was the one who built my new routines from scratch. I just told her what I was sure I didn’t feel like performing to.” She grimaces, disappointed with her past self. “Not very helpful.”

Akira hums from the other side of the line. “Your coach didn’t ask for full routines, though, right? I mean, you just have to come up with proposals. Ideas. Then I’m sure she’ll know how to help you transform those into actual choreographies.”

She inhales to speak but stops. He’s not wrong.

“And anyway,” he goes on, “what was that spark you were telling me?”

“Oh!”

She heats up. Suddenly, the idea of explaining how their meeting in the Metaverse inspired her seems so, so silly.

“Come on,” he cheers, a smile in his voice. “I won’t tease you or anything.”

She breathes in. “Okay. Today I was fumbling with the clubs and… don’t laugh but I managed to imagine myself as Violet. As my Metaverse self.”

“Hey, no, that’s pretty cool. What have you imagined?”

“Throwing my rapier. So I tried that movement with the clubs but it didn’t work out. It still gave me an idea, though: what if I built one of my routines around my Violet moves? I know that a rapier and a hoop don’t look like they have anything in common but I’m starting to grow confident around the boldness I could convey with a hoop routine like that.” She sighs, reclining her head further back on the pillow. “You know, when I was acting as Kasumi, Coach told me all the time to focus on my true self. That I didn’t need Kasumi’s boldness. And she was right. But with this, I’m not after Kasumi’s boldness. I just… want to feel like the Violet I was in the Metaverse, fighting shadows with you. And the others!”

On the other side of the phone call, Akira clears his voice.

“Sounds neat to me. And, well, if you’re set on showing off that attitude again… who am I to stop you? Instead, I’m absolutely cheering for you.”

Her face burns. “Senpai!”

“It’s cute how you almost don’t use that nickname anymore except when you’re extremely flustered.”

“You promised not to tease me!”

“I’m not teasing you about the concept, technically. I’m teasing you about your reaction.”

“You sound just like Akechi,” she groans.

Akira doesn’t retort right back, taking a moment to answer instead.

“You’re… not the first who said that to me.”

“Must be the living together,” she mutters. “Cannot say I’m not a bit jealous.”

Oh. Oh no. She didn’t mean to say that. What a rude comment to make. She’s getting too tired to filter things out – she should go to sleep.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Don’t worry. It’s probably a legit complaint. I know the situation isn’t the best, but you’re welcome here anytime.”

“Mh-mh. I just… I think I’m missing you quite a bit.”

“You too.” He whispers it like a confession, a little gift given to her in secret. It makes her shiver, and she has to swallow down the embarrassment.

“The next Worlds will take place in Kitakyushu. Do you think…?”

“I’ll do my best to be there.”

“I don’t want to impose though – especially not on the two of you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll gladly come to see you again live and a vacation of a few days will only do good to Goro. He keeps working himself out, I swear…” He sighs, muttering something beyond understanding. “It’s okay, alright?”

“Thank you,” she says, her heart swelling in her chest. She so wants to show off her best abilities now, even more than before. And regarding that…

“How can I explain to Coach Hiraguchi how I feel about the whole Violet thing without… well, being literal about it?”

“What about you try explaining to her how that makes you feel? From what I gathered, she banned Kasumi’s brand of moves but if the boldness and the determination are coming from inside you, put in your words, I don’t see her turning you down.”

“I see. All things considered, that makes sense. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.”

“No, seriously. It means a lot. You’re always there for me… I want to make sure you know I’m also here for you, too. Well, figuratively.”

“Alas…” Akira comments in a light tone.

Alas…

“How are you?”

“Enjoying my summer break for now. Online classes weren’t the best but I managed. If only I got someone to spend my days with…” he sighs dramatically. “Oh, to be with two very talented, very special individuals, requested in and outside of Japan all the time.”

“You’re the first two things, too, Akira.”

“And thank God the third isn’t true anymore. At least for now. Wait until I start doing investigative journalism for real.” There’s a wink in his voice, which makes her laugh again.

“You’ll be a menace, I’m sure.”

“That’s my goal, yes. Not to your sleep, though. I’ll leave you be for now. It’s past 11 and you must be tired as hell.”

Sumire exhales a whiny hum. She should be sleeping already.

“You’re not wrong.”

“Guessed so. Goodnight, then. Rest plenty, and do your best tomorrow, all right?”

“Will do. Thank you, Akira. Goodnight.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She hangs the call and spreads star-like on the bed. Her hair, still damp, sticks pressed between her neck and the pillow with the braid leaving a layer of moisture on her skin, heated up by her body warmth.

Shivering lightly, she raises the outer cover and the bed sheets and slips under the flimsier layer. She turns to face the wall, not bothering with lowering the shutters. If her alarm won’t wake her up tomorrow, the daylight will.

Coach Hiraguchi seems a little amused and not entirely convinced by her explanation, eyeing her with her lips pursed tight in the strain to contain any expression as she would do with a child exposing why the sky is actually green.

Sumire groans, defeated.

“You’re not convinced.”

“You seem to be, though. So I’m trusting your judgment. I know you learned your lessons and that this isn’t a way for you to retrace old steps. But I have to ask that you try and build a story around this concept, too. And propose a few tracks for it. That way, we can better figure out where to go from here.”

She nods, with a tide of enthusiasm washing back over her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, back to work. We’ll revise your hoop routine today. It has quite the flavor and you’re capable of executing that even under great pressure but we need to push further with the D-score. Come on, let’s start with the single elements.”

Sumire picks up her hoop from near the bench and treads back into the area of the training mat. She places the apparatus down, hooks her right foot’s neck under the plastic frame, and breathes in.

First, a throw without visual control nor hands via a forward walkover, with three rotations under it, and a catch splayed on the floor with the hoop landing around her legs.

“Arms!” Coach Hiraguchi chides, mimicking the ugly angle her arms took during the walkover.

The second try has a “Fingertips!” coming off, with a crooked hand to signal she wasn’t pointing them correctly.

Timing, without visual control, rotations that are done after the catch. She stops counting after the seventh repetition. What matters is keeping up with the corrections, stacking them one after the other, without losing pieces from one try to the next.

“Good, all right Sumire,” her coach says, clapping her hands. Which should mean she did amazingly in Hiraguchi-code.

Sumire smiles back, chest heaving and adrenaline pumping through her.

“Thanks,” she pants.

“Now, let’s step that up, shall we? I was thinking about changing the landing with a bounce before the catch. That should raise the total value of this Risk at 1.1 instead of 0.9.”

“Uhm…” she tries envisioning the final movement, squeezing her lower lip between thumb and index. Instead of bending back to create a concave angle with her trunk, she should arch forward to create a convex shape for the hoop to rebound on.

She imitates it roughly.

“Like this?”

“Precisely,” Coach Hiraguchi smiles. “This way you can also blend in the subsequent Apparatus Difficulty – just grab the hoop and execute that same rotation. You’ll also be able to get extra points for the AD if the hoop then travels from your hand to your ankle. But let’s do it one at a time. Are you ready?”

“Absolutely!”

And the cycle starts all over.

She executes. Coach shouts corrections. She tries again. More corrections, more trying.

By the time the revised movement gets greenlighted, she’s out of breath and in dire need of a drink.

“Three minutes break,” Coach Hiraguchi declares, and they both stalk towards their bags and much-needed water bottles.

Sumire downs the first, big gulp and does her best to contain the following ones to more modest sips – she can’t risk the liquid sitting heavy in her stomach while she trains. She detaches from the mouth of the bottle and starts closing the cap again.

Her heart leaps.

Mrs. Ishikawa is strolling around the area, controlled and poised step after step, quietly observing the National Team training hard.

She swallows, even if there’s no more water in her mouth.

Don’t obsess over it, Sumire. Keep calm.

“Break’s over!” Coach Hiraguchi calls. “Let’s go on revising the ring pivot so we can see what can be done with your second Risk after that.”

Mindlessly nodding, Sumire tears her gaze away from the JGA coordinator, more than happy to immerse herself into the straining but comforting loop of repetitions.

They leave the ring pivot as is for now, but the subsequent Risk gets bumped to 0.9 with a “without visual control” criterion and an additional rotation under the hoop – and still, Coach Hiraguchi remains determined to further raise that to 1.0 by the end of the week with a possibility for a more complex throw. The third Risk remains unaltered for the time being, thankfully. The same doesn’t go for most of the Apparatus Difficulties, which are pushed up by at least 0.1 each.

By the first half of the routine, Sumire grows antsy, and more and more repetitions are needed each time.

Coach Hiraguchi studies her with slightly frowned brows and both her palms on her hips.

“Let’s take another break. Five minutes this time.”

“Yes, coach,” she pants. Her face is on fire, with liters of blood being pumped to and from her brain. Strands of hair have fallen loose from her updo so she has to untie the whole thing and make that up again.

Sighing, she snatches the water bottle from the bench and takes a few controlled sips. She needs to do better. She even started off quite well by her standards. But of course, she was bound to mess things up—

No, that’s not it.

She clenches the bottle with all ten fingers. She doesn’t need that now. What she needs is to take a breath, recover enough to go on, and face this training session without any additional burden. Gravity is enough to struggle against.

She breathes in, eyes closed, mentally counting to ten.

She opens them and finds Mrs. Ishikawa glancing at her from across the training mat, leaning against the wall. Sumire slightly bows to her, receiving an acknowledging nod in response.

She puts the water bottle back and picks the hoop up instead.

“All right, time for lunch break!”

Coach Hiraguchi claps her palms in a defined slap and steps back from the border of the mat to retrieve her satchel.

“I’ll go on to secure a spot at the hotel restaurant.” She winks at her, grinning. “Take your time, but not too much. We have plenty to discuss.”

Sumire lets out a breath and breaks loose from her finishing pose. They managed to implement all the changes to her hoop routine, but it’ll take time until she can properly execute them all. Oh, to rewrite muscle memory with new information…

She picks up the hoop and walks away from the training floor, looking for her towel. She brushes sweat away from her forehead and gently leans the bottle containing what remains of the fresh water against her damp neck. It makes her shudder a little.

“Sumire Yoshizawa?”

She turns to find Mrs. Ishikawa waiting for her near the closest exit. Her expression is set on a neutral polite smile – it doesn’t look fake, or like she’s hiding a menace underneath so maybe she’s not going to scold her.

“Mrs. Ishikawa.” She bows. “What can I help you with?”

“Just a word with you, it won’t take long. I’ll make sure to have a chat with your coach, too.”

“Sure, I’m listening. May I ask… does it have to do with today’s training?”

The woman nods. “Indeed. My observations also stem from your career up until now, though, so I’d advise that you take your time to consider what I’m about to say.”

A shiver runs down Sumire’s spine. Worry clenches the base of her stomach but she smiles through it and politely nods.

“First of all,” Mrs. Ishikawa says, “an acknowledgment not just of your skills, but of your dedication. You’ve always been so focused on the goal. Know that it’s been noticed and appreciated. All our gymnasts train hard, of course – yet I can sense that in your case it seems to be a very… personal matter.”

“It is, in a certain way.”

“That’s very good,” she agrees. “It certainly is a strength of yours – be careful though, not to turn it into your biggest weakness, too. I don’t know you as well as your Coach but even I can see that your exhibitions tend to balance too much on an intangible edge. Mistakes do happen, and our goal, with this camp and with all our work, is to reduce the chance of them occurring. We cannot, however, be in your heads to reassure you while you perform. That is a type of improvement that heavily relies on you and that, too, is part of being a professional gymnast who competes at the Olympic level. Are you getting what I’m saying?”

Sumire does her best to keep her mouth from grimacing.

“Clear as water, Mrs. Ishikawa. I did speak about this issue with my Coach and I am putting real effort into doing better in that regard.”

“Good. I trust Coach Hiraguchi to train you as she knows best but I still wanted to make sure this issue was addressed. Now, onto more practical matters…” she glances at the hoop in her hand. “I observed your first steps towards improving your clubs and hoop routines to score higher. I believe you’re going in the correct direction so let me give you some advice to further your potential: as you’ll grow older, you might want to favor endurance and the combination of elements to score more points over complex poses that can put your lower back under strain. Especially with this new Code. But I am sure your coach is already pondering this.”

Sumire subtly wets her lips, nodding. It… never occurred to her. But she supposes Mrs. Ishikawa is right. And she is capable of undergoing more repetitions before having to take a break than she did years ago.

“Thank you for the precious advice. I’ll make sure to treasure it.”

The woman nods back, stretching her lips slightly wider. “It is just my interest and my duty that your potential is nurtured. Despite what happened in this year’s Olympics, you’re still a promising athlete, and we look forward to your future exhibitions.

“Oh and, about that. I remember your first music choices in the Senior division were quite aggressive. I find your current picks to be more suited to your way of performing – in fact, I suggest that you look into a more classical or heavy orchestral piece. It might do you good.”

“I will consider this. Thank you again.” She bows deeply. “I fully intend to keep improving, to climb on top of the gymnastic world. Whatever it takes.”

Mrs. Ishikawa hums, nodding appreciatively.

“That is the attitude we want to see. All right, I will have that talk with your coach now. Care to show me the way?”

“Oh, surely!”

Sumire hastily throws both bottle and towel into the bag, closes the zipper, and hangs it on her right shoulder, clenching her hoop in her free hand.

And she heads out of the stadium.

“Well, that didn’t go too bad, did it?”

Akira’s voice comes with a metallic cackle through the speaker.

Sumire sighs, pacing through the room.

“I suppose.”

“What’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the fact she seemed to be able to read right through me so easily.” She worries at her lower lip, chest clenching. “I cannot help but wonder… is this what people see when I perform? That I’m a bundle of nerves who can mess up at any given moment?”

“I think you’re being too harsh on yourself right now, Sumi. She still is a highly ranked JGA individual – of course she has an extra technical eye. But I assure you, to someone like me who doesn’t understand a thing about the sport, you’re always mesmerizing to watch when you’re dancing on the floor.”

Her cheeks heat up. She can’t help but loop a strand of scarlet hair around her index finger.

“T-thank you.”

“Hey, it’s true. This Ishikawa lady might’ve been too blunt about it but I suppose she isn’t 100% wrong.”

“I suppose…” she mutters, still unsure.

“Although, on one thing I disagree on.”

“Oh?”

“I kinda get why she said your very first music choices weren’t fitting. They weren’t yours. But I don’t think you’re only suited for classical pieces with a mystic aura. I mean, you are! But you’re also so much more than that.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yeah. She’s a middle-aged veteran of the sport so it doesn’t surprise me that she wishes to see you perform with a combo she perceives as well-oiled and safe. And I’m sure you’ll look stunning regardless. But… as someone who’s been held at gunpoint from you and saw you slicing through shadows in the cognitive world, I just know you can also be that. Does it make sense?”

“It does,” she says, smiling. Those are words that warm her from the inside out, deep from her core. The hardest part is straying away from that inner voice determined on making her believe she doesn’t deserve them.

“Thank you, Akira. I feel a bit closer to actually having something to talk about with Coach Hiraguchi for my next routines.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. It basically involves just me gushing. I can do that all the time if it helps you.” His voice gets charged, and she can see the wink hidden in it. “Payment’s in nature.”

She involuntarily eeks and presses a palm hard against her face.

“Please stop this.”

“Can’t. It’s too much fun.”

“You have it too easy!”

“Then, as Futaba’d say, you’ll have to git gud. Goro nearly doesn’t even react to this stuff anymore.”

“I bet he doubles that down, actually,” she groans.

“…maybe.”

She stops her threading just before the window, hovering the fingertips of her free hand on the chilly glass. The reflection of the room is clear as day and clad in white sterile light but if she squints enough, she can make out some trees and a street dotted with lamplights outside.

“I’ll have to go now. Rest plenty and all that.”

“Sure. Sleep well. I’ll call you tomorrow? Same time.”

A wide grin spreads on her cheeks, and her heart feels so, so full.

“Tomorrow same time.”

Chapter Text

The conveyor belt transporting the baggage runs in circles, with fewer and fewer bags entering the loop. Sumire shifts her weight from her left foot to her right, clenching the strap of her gym bag tighter until the fabric is pressing angrily on her shoulder even through the coat. There were just the National team and some business workers on the plane, it shouldn’t be this troublesome to get her stuff.

Come on…

She shoots a side glance towards the exit, to the rest of the team who already retrieved their suitcases and hoop cases, mindlessly scrolling their phones or seizing the moment for a detour to the restrooms.

The belt’s engine whirs, almost the only sound in the entire hall. The air is heavy with cleaning chemicals and plastic and general stuffiness. She can’t help but wonder how long Kitakyushu’s airport has been closed.

One light-blue suitcase peeks out from the pit of the sorting system and gets deposited on the belt, with two hoop cases after that. Sumire exhales from relief and trots towards her baggage to pick it up – her ears are already burning from forcing the whole team to wait for her.

She stretches on the belt, clasps the side handle, and drags the rigid luggage down on the floor.

“Uhm…”

She remembered it to be bigger, in all honesty. Her father helped her check in after driving her to Haneda Airport so she didn’t spare it too much attention, but as she also grabs her two hoop cases, the topmost side of the luggage barely scrapes her right thigh.

Mrs. Ishikawa’s voice comes to her mind, ‘As you’ll grow older, you might want to favor endurance over complex poses.’

Biting down her lower lip, she strides across the luggage hall to reunite with the rest of the team. It feels like the first growth spurt she had at 13 when she had to learn to get acquainted with her body all over again. And the worst part is that recalling her teenage years still comes easier than puzzling together all her life between March 2020 and the Olympics of the past summer.

She waves to Coach Hiraguchi, who nods back.

“All good?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry for having you all wait for me.”

“Don’t say that as if it’s your fault,” she huffs, shaking her head. “C’mon. Our transfer to the hotel is just outside the Terminal. Have you downloaded the schedule?”

Sumire flashes the screen of her phone as they cross the sliding doors into the arrival area. Hiraguchi hums approvingly.

“Good. The Qualifications are on Wednesday, so we’ll use tomorrow for an extra day of training before the World starts. I also want to squeeze in some extra practice on Wednesday morning, so that you can focus on individual elements tomorrow and then revise whole routines and get in the flow before the Qualifications. Sounds good?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent. Are you worried?”

Sumire gives her a small smile. “I think I developed enough thick skin by now that I can start to worry on Wednesday morning.”

Coach Hiraguchi half-barks out a laugh. “Humor? From you? This is the spirit!”

Her cheeks flare up. Akira must be rubbing off on her more than she thought.

“More than anything, I’m happy that the Clubs are scheduled on Thursday and not on the opening day.”

They stop on the sidewalk aisle just outside the terminal where a private van is parked. The driver opens the door from his side and bows to them, then slides open the white door to the passengers’ seats and gestures to leave the luggage to him.

Sumire hops on board and takes a sit on her left side, just near the window. The seat beside her dips and squeaks, and Coach Hiraguchi settles by her side.

“You worked a lot since this summer. And I know that your Ribbon and Ball routines are your pride but try not to go into this competition with the assumption that you can’t perform well all around, all right? Even with the Clubs.”

She nods. The extra training she took indeed was intense – hopefully, it will pay off.

“Yes, Coach.”

The driver climbs back into the driving seat and starts the engine. An almost-empty visitor’s parking and a deserted bus station pass by the window, and as their van climbs the bridge connecting the artificial island where Kitakyushu Airport is built with the main island, Sumire leans her right temple on the chilling window screen and lets her gaze wander in the waves of the sea underneath.

The Kitakyushu Rhythmic Gymnastics World Championships of 2021 are especially instructive. Every competition usually is, in a way, but after the Olympics in the summer, Sumire found out that it is a lot easier to gain insights if she allows herself the time to step back, sit aside, and observe.

She’s always walked the tightrope of cowering at the knowledge that other people – fellow gymnasts, the press, the sport’s fans, her friends, Akira and Akechi – are perceiving her and that subtle voice telling her she wasn’t good enough to live any kind of impression. But she devotes herself to training, practicing, revising her exhibitions in any spare moment she has, and the vices strangling her throat and knotting up the base of her stomach subside in a silent retreat. That voice is much easier to shut down when she can score 24.650 points at the Hoop and 25.850 at the Ball, placing sixth, accessing both finals during that first day of competition.

Now people are turning their heads when she crosses the corridors to get changed or enters the waiting area before her routines. It spikes something electric on her nerves. It’s like unlocking a sixth sense, like entering an entirely different state of conscience.

She can do it. She worked hard. The others are going to see it – and now she knows they are watching.

“Two finals in a day,” Coach Hiraguchi comments with a sly smirk and a subtle nod of her chin. “Not bad at all.”

Sumire flashes her a tired grin. Dinner hour is approaching but she doesn’t feel like even nibbling a snack for fear that the barest interference could drag her out of this hyper-focused state.

Coach Hiraguchi passes her a drink. “I know you’re tired but you’re almost there. If you’re tempted to let doubts overtake you: don’t. You already achieved greatly. Your training is paying off and I can see how you’ve been holding yourself.”

“Is it that obvious?” she muses.

“No one with enough observation skill could pass on that. Keep up that energy, okay?”

She nods and slowly sips the drink. It tastes tangerine and chemicals, but it should get her through the evening.

When her name gets called by the announcer, she walks the runway to the floor with her hands clenching on the Hoop and a bright smile. If she must find one positive thing about competing in a World final past 7 pm, is that it’s all muscle memory from here on – she can trust herself to repeat well-oiled movements, connections, Risks, and be vigilant enough in case something is about to slip. In her mind, there’s only the mental reassurance that she did these exact motions enough times already to have lost count of how many they are, exactly.

And even if in the end her name doesn’t get called to step on the podium, she’s surprisingly okay with that. Fifth in the World with the Hoop and the Ball isn’t half bad, after all. Reporters will have plenty to ask her about.

And maybe Akechi must be rubbing off on her a bit, too, as she finds herself in trouble containing a smirk when gymnasts that have always clutched tightly to their positions now shoot her side glances as she waves her hand to the cameras.

The next day, she loses access to the Clubs final by one tenth and one thousandth.

It makes her grit her teeth in frustration – yet another thing she couldn’t master fully – before she seals that closed like the zipper of the leotard for her upcoming Ribbon performance.

Another fifth place – she enters this final, too. And she’s eighth on the overall ranking with a nice 74.000 points, which means the all-around final is also hers.

When her name is announced for the Ribbon, her hands are shaking. She resists the urge to wipe the sweat away against the muted purple of her leotard’s frills. It’s always when a win is actually within her reach that her stomach knots the most.

She stops in the center of the floor, under too-white lights. The people in the seats across the West Japan General Exhibition Center are still sparse, but cameras are moving around and above her to capture every second of her performance. As she gently places the tail of the ribbon around her body, two bundles of thoughts and feelings brawl inside her:

I can’t mess up. Please don’t mess up.

I trained so much. Now look what I can do.

The familiar piano with its melancholic tones diffuses its note into the arena, and Sumire’s body enters the flow of the routine.

These Worlds will be the last major competition she will perform this Ribbon routine at. The new Code of Points will overtake starting in January and she will switch to the new routines they are still building with Coach Hiraguchi. She can’t help the smile that slips on her cheeks – performing to this music, now, feels a lot like a farewell to a long-time friend, one that despite extending their stay, she’s still sad to part with.

Her body aches halfway through it but she pours more and more of herself into each throw, into each spin and dive under it, into each catch and pivot and dance step. This routine wasn’t designed to take advantage of her increased stamina but she’s very well set on doing that regardless. Her body fills with movement, she almost loses the cue to still at the end, when the music stops.

Her lungs burn, aching with every expansion, and the breaths she’s catching must be anything but graceful.

But the few public they have is cheering for her and Coach Hiraguchi is already beaming at her from the kiss and cry.

23.450.

She chokes on her spit and Coach has to hug her to cover it from the prying lenses of the press.

She’s third. She won bronze.

She won bronze at the Worlds.

The Worlds end with a sixth place, and it’s the first time a spot outside of the podium doesn’t burn like acid pooling at the pit of her stomach.

That thought alone occupies the majority of her mind, spreading, as the trio of all-around winners proudly walk to the glory and Sumire sticks her chin upwards to make sure it is really a 6 the number beside her name and score – 99.525.

Sixth in the world.

She fiddles with the hem of the National sweater as the chill of the evening settles in and mixes with the adrenaline to raise goosebumps on her skin. It feels… so much, to be amongst the top ten gymnasts in the entire world right now. The more she forces her mind to wrap around the concept, the more it feels like a dream.

Her lower lip quivers with joy. There’s a 6 beside her name, it’s true. It’s hers. Sumire of one year ago would’ve thought it impossible. Sumire of 5 years ago wouldn’t even have tried.

Now she will be going home with three finals, a bronze medal, and a sixth place in the World Championships. Japan’s flag will be amongst those of Russia and Belarus and Bulgaria and Italy and Ukraine.

She turns to Coach Hiraguchi and finds her subtly smirking at her.

“I did it.” Words come difficult to her – she’s smiling so much her cheeks hurt. “I did that.”

“What have I been telling you all these years?”

“I did it!”

She hops through the small distance left between them and rushes to hug her Coach, whose arms raise to welcome her once again.

“I can hear your competitors trembling already,” Coach Hiraguchi whispers to her ear.

Her heart is a concert of sensations and emotions and fears. She will have to train even more, win even more, raise the bar exhibition after exhibition, and shine brighter and brighter so that she can be the inspiration she’s always looked for when she was younger.

“This was just the first step,” she hushes back.

“Every journey starts like this. Will yours end in Paris?”

She hugs her Coach even tighter.

“Yes.”

Sumire: [photo attached]
Sumire: See you tomorrow <3

Akira: we poppin’ the biggest bottles!!
Akira: you look so good sumi

Akechi Goro: Akira she can’t drink.

Sumire: Actually I turned 20 this March! ^_^

Akechi Goro: … my apologies.

Sumire: I should still avoid it though
Sumire: It’s not good for my health

Akira: they grow so fast, don’t they? <3
Akira: anyway don’t they also make non-alcoholic beers?

Akechi Goro: Go pack your bag right now or I’m leaving you here tomorrow.

Sumire nuzzles her cheek into the plush fabric, breathing in the stark cleanness of hotel-room pillows. A dull ache still spreads through her muscles from the previous days yet the Japanese flag with a badly-stuck post-it with ‘6’ scribbled on it welcomes her to the waking world from across the room.

Grinning to herself, she turns in bed and reaches for the nightstand, unplugging her phone. It’s a little past 8 in the morning, twenty-eight minutes before her alarm. Nothing can be done to alter her sleep cycle by now, huh? At least she gets plenty of extra time before the meeting with Akira and Akechi.

She basks in the bleak end-of-October light, stretching her limbs until her muscles sting. Her stomach growls, making her wince. The Worlds’ closing ceremony won’t be until 8 tonight, after the groups’ final, but she has a whole day of sightseeing ahead. Better to head down and start the day with a nice breakfast.

She slips out of the pristine covers and walks to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. The only non-gym clothes she packed are waiting for her on the heater – a pair of dark jeans, a burgundy turtleneck, and a white knitted cardigan her grandma gifted her last Christmas. The fabrics are warm on her skin, and wearing the cardigan feels like being embraced whole.

She does an impromptu twirl in front of the mirror, grabs her coat and purse from the hanger, slips on the boots, and exits the room.

The dining hall is nearly empty. One lonely businessman sits at a table in the farthest corner with his miso soup and natto, while a family of three with a little child is eating their breakfast on the opposite side. The group gymnasts must have already left for one last round of training before the finals in the afternoon, while most of the individualists must be making good use of a chance to rest.

Sumire shoots a glance at the buffet: a notice announces that it will be momentarily closed due to health concerns, so she takes place at the nearest table and gestures for a waiter. She goes for a slightly bigger order than what she got the previous days: grilled mackerel, a salad, rice, and miso soup.

While chewing on the fish, she checks her phone: Akira and Akechi have landed and are on their way out of the airport. She texts back, ‘That’s great! <3’ and sips scorching soup slowly. As soon as she’s done, she picks up her purse and heads out of the hotel to the bus terminal connecting the place with the city center.

There’s no crowd at all getting off the airport shuttle – Akira’s black mop of hair stands out like a blotch of ink on white paper. Sumire trots to hug him, and she’s met with a strong hold in return.

“Hey there, Sumi,” he says softly to the crown of her head, muffled by the mask.

“Hey there. It’s so good to see you.”

“Right back at you. It’s been so long, I swear…” he brushes his knuckles against her back, making her shiver even through several layers of clothing. “How is the sixth-best gymnast in the world doing?”

She gives him one final squeeze before detaching. “I’m doing quite well, thank you! How was the trip?”

“It was alright.”

“We were almost late,” Akechi adds with an unimpressed look.

“One hour and a half in advance isn’t being late, Goro.”

“Good practice would dictate you should arrive at the airport at least two hours before boarding.”

“We were fine. It’s not like there’s this huge crowd of people going around or anything, anyway.”

“If only you hadn’t needed to still finish packing, we would’ve been on time. Or even early, god forbid.”

“Yet you didn’t abandon me at home. So I’m counting that a win.”

Before she can do anything to contain it, a giggle erupts from her mouth, rising from deep within her chest. She grins at both boys, hoping her eyes are enough to convey it.

“I missed you so much.”

Akira’s hand scratches the back of his neck, and he smiles sheepishly. Akechi looks away with a conflicted look but seems to force himself to meet her eyes again.

“Congratulations on your achievements, by the way.”

“Thank you!”

“You worked so hard, Sumi,” Akira adds with a proud glint in his eyes. “And speaking of, are you sure you want to hang out around the city? You’re coming from three days of competition and five of intense training. We can still find a spot and just chill for a bit.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to lose this opportunity to visit a new place. After I’ll be back in Tokyo I will begin the training for the first meetings of the new year so that I can perfect four new routines. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance like this.”

He nods but a tiny frown appears between his eyebrows. “Got it. Don’t push yourself too hard though, alright?”

“Don’t worry. I just want to do my best.”

“Good.” He turns to Goro, smirking. “Alright sir planner, care to reveal our first stop?”

Akechi throws him a look that promises ugly and dirty revenge to be enacted later and opens the map app on his phone.

“That would be Tanga Market.”

“It’s a big spot in Kitakyushu,” Akira adds with way more enthusiasm, “we won’t find it as lively as it usually is, but some shops are flagged to be open. It’s only one minutes-walk away from here.”

Sumire beams. “Great!”

She adjusts the strap of her purse on her shoulder and steps by his side. A cold breeze blows from the sea, but they’ve been blessed by a rare Autumn sunny day that leaves a pleasant warmth on her cheeks, even through the mask.

Tanga Market is a covered maze of alleys made up of shops and bars and stalls squeezed against each other. Between the early hour and the pandemic situation, a good chunk of the commercial activities welcome visitors with their shutters closed. Mostly elderly people stroll by, stopping here and there to purchase fresh fish or raw meat to cook for lunch or grab a treat for their grandchildren. The light rays filtering through the plexiglass windows of the ceiling subdue what must be the market’s natural shine, bathing it in a washed-out atmosphere.

Sumire’s tiny-heeled boots clatter on the sidewalk, louder than the echoes of motorbikes passing by the outer street and the faint piano melody coming from one of the bars. She stops near the closed shutter of a steak skewers shop. Despite the out-of-place quiet, she indulges in the calm of the day.

“Do we have a specific place in mind?”

“We do,” Akira nods, smug. “I managed to speak with a local through a friend. She suggested a few places to check.” He fishes his phone out of his trench pocket and gestures for them to follow. “C’mon, I wanna try some sweets first.”

Sumire lets him take the lead and falls into step with Akechi.

“I thought you were the mind behind this?” she whispers.

He gives her a shrug. “I simply took care of the tickets, booking, and the optimal itinerary – all the adult tasks, basically. The food choice has been on him, and rightfully so.”

Didn’t you own a food blog?

That must be a very silly question to ask after all these years, so she keeps it to herself.

“Was it a lot of trouble to organize this trip?”

His treading slows down as his gaze surveys one little boy playing with a Featherman figurine amongst pallets of fresh vegetables, probably the son of the shop owner. It’s barely there, and then he’s already resumed walking.

“Way less than it could’ve been, if I’m being honest. My, ah, agency covered it as a work trip.”

“Oh – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.”

“Not at all. We could say they owed me a favor, and besides, we needed to celebrate, no?” He stops again and looks in Akira’s direction, who is comparing some pictures on his phone with the sign of a stall that sells traditional sweets. “He needed this, too.”

That isn’t good to hear.

“Is Akira working too much? I thought he was focusing on the last round of exams.”

“He is, and he’s dropped the majority of his part-time jobs. But since deciding to pursue journalism, he did a rendezvous with an old acquaintance to get some contacts in the field.”

“Oh yes, Ohya-san. He did mention her in passing.”

She doesn’t like how Akechi’s eyebrows crinkle on his forehead.

“Precisely. She’s a good woman and a great reporter I am sure – although I don’t particularly like when she takes him out drinking. But I understand the necessity of networking to get what he wants, more so since it seems to be paying off. Although not in the most literal sense of the word, and that’s the issue.”

Sumire grimaces. She had no idea. Akira sounded so thrilled when he told her about reconnecting with Ohya-san.

“That’s not fair.”

“Glad we are on the same page.” He sighs. “I worked with the press, so I am well aware it’s the type of field where you have to start somewhere from scratch and that includes getting paid poorly, or not at all. But he tends to give away too much sometimes, especially with cases that somehow end up feeling… personal.”

She silently shakes her head. She will have to have a word with him as soon as they manage to squeeze in a moment just for the two of them.

“Thank you for the insight, Akechi-san.”

He turns to look at her, his eyes a bit wider. He’s about to say something but Akira bursts into the conversation, pointing at the stall behind his back.

“This is the first one. I wasn’t sure at first because it’s not on the net and the picture that local person I spoke with showed me is at least 5 years old. But it’s the right one, I’m sure. Best mochi in town, apparently.”

“We could buy an assorted box and share them! Akechi-san?”

“I’ll pass, thank you. I’m not too fond of sweets, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?” Akira says, a mocking glint in his eyes. His gaze travels to a takoyaki stall across the street. “Would you rather have one of those?”

Akechi half-chortles and squares him with belligerent intent. “Will you ever drop that?”

“Never,” he says, dragging the r in a purr. He turns to approach the woman at the desk and orders a selection of four mochis.

“I’ll take one with azuki paste, and the matcha one. Which ones do you want, Sumi?”

“Uhm…” She glances at the display before her, filled with soft-looking rice balls of assorted colors – from white to pink to green. “I’ll have another plain one, and I’d like to try the strawberry one.” She opens her purse to take her wallet out but Akira is placing a hand on her forearm.

“Hey, no, Sumi, this is on me.”

She raises one eyebrow. “I appreciate the thought, Akira, but I can afford it. Competitions come with money prizes, remember?”

“But we’re here to celebrate, you’re our guest today.”

“I insist.”

They both turn to Akechi, who’s looking unamused.

“Can’t you two just split?”

“No!” they reply at the same time.

He exhales a long breath with just a hint of an eye roll. “Then I agree with Yoshizawa. She’s a professional athlete, you’re a broke student. Swallow your pride.”

“For now!” Akira barks back without too much bite in it. He steps aside and lets her pass 800¥ to the cashier, who glances at them with a subtle smile.

Sumire retrieves the bag with the mochi box and can’t help to giggle back.

She lowers her mask and goes for the plain mochi first, biting into chewy rice paste. It’s delicate with just a hint of sweetness.

“Mh! So good.”

“Soo good,” Akira echoes with the corner of his mouth sprinkled with red bean paste.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them,” the woman at the counter tells them. “It’s an old tradition within my family. My grandma sadly passed away recently, so I took over the shop since no one else could. Are you here to sightseeing in the city? I’m sorry it’s not as lively as usual.”

“Actually,” he says, biting his second mochi, “we came here to celebrate. She’s a gymnast, you see, she’s just competed in the World Championships. Sixth in the world!”

Sumire tries to repress a groan, offering a polite bow to the woman.

“Yes, I’m part of the National Team.”

Their interlocutor beams at that. “Really? Oh, I’m so happy you took the time to visit our city. Due to health restrictions, the venture this year didn’t bring any tourists, so we’re left handling business as usual despite the big event.” She hastens to pick a smaller box and shoves another two mochis inside. “Here, please have them. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I think I heard about one Japanese gymnast competing in the Olympic Games this summer, was that you?”

With heat scorching her face, Sumire accepts the offering and nods.

“Oh, but that’s great! What’s your name?”

“Sumire Yoshizawa, ma’am,” she bows again to her. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Sumire! What a lovely name. I wish you the best of luck, and I am sure you will make all of us proud. Keep enjoying the city with your friends, all right?”

Her stomach does a weird flip at the word, but she smiles through it.

“Of course. Thank you very, very much!”

She bows a third time and waves a hand to her. They resume their strolling through the market, but her cheeks don’t give away any intention to stop burning.

“You’re cute,” Akira says when they walked far away enough, poking her on the shoulder. “I think she’s a fan now.”

“Please don’t make this any more embarrassing.”

“Why? You’re constantly under the spotlight for millions of people to watch you from across the globe, you damn well deserve some fans.”

“Akira…” she exhales a deep sigh and turns to look at Akechi. “Where are we headed next?”

“Our next spot will be the panoramic view on top of Mount Sarakura, but I believe Akira hasn’t emptied his food stalls list yet?”

“Oh no, absolutely not. Follow me.”

After another good hour of strolling around, two rounds of yakitori stalls, a corner stall offering grilled and fried fish dishes, and one extra melonpan with cream, Sumire feels stuffed enough to go on until dinnertime. She proudly clenches the bag with some delicacies she can embark on the flight to bring back home with her, and they all head to the bus leading to the base of Mount Sarakura.

The cable railway station is a boxed building made of stairs for the major part, two rounds on each side of the tracks, one for getting in and the other for getting out of the blue car. They climb inside the reclined vehicle, the only passengers to be transported on top.

The engine whirs, the car detaches from the platform with a screech and the climb on the sloped tracks running up the side of the mountain begins. Sumire lingers her fingertips on the cold glass of the car and focuses past her barely-there reflection to what’s behind the glass. Slowly they leave the city beneath them, with everything becoming smaller and smaller as they ascend, and even if it’s on a much smaller scale, she wonders how small spectators on the farthest, highest seats in the arenas and halls she performs in must perceive her while she dances under the lights.

The car enters the cover of the upper terminal and stops on the platform with a loud clank. A matching set of yellow-lined steps awaits them outside, and after that, opens a lawny observation area enclosed by a fence.

With a subconscious gape, Sumire walks through the angry wind to reach the border. She has to force the lapel of her coat closed with both hands but the shiver that runs down her spine isn’t caused by the cold.

Under her, kilometers below, surrounding Mount Sarakura there are scattered squares consisting of the districts of Kitakyushu, with the first lamplights blooming into the afternoon, following the sun that is quickly giving way to the evening. Gusts slap her cheeks and cause the portion of hair that isn’t tucked into the coat to storm freely before her face. Short of breath, she draws in a long one through the tissue of the mask. Sumire is a gymnast, she indeed performs for an audience of millions, she’s supposed to know what feeling alive feels like.

Smiling, she lets the air invade her lungs nonetheless.

The squeak of leaves being pressed on the ground is barely audible among the roar of the hair. A warm and solid weight slides by her side, an arm coming to circle her shoulders. She leans in, basking in the burnt scent of coffee.

“Thank you for sticking with me, Akira.”

“I’ll always be.”

Sumire tears her gaze away from the view of the city at dusk, not minding it one bit. Akira’s eyes are already verging on black in the dying light, glinting from the increasing number of streetlights and lamps and neon signs being turned on.

One of Akira’s hands lowers the mask down, past his chin, and sneaks past her lapel and curtain of hair to settle tenderly around her jaw – he still refuses to wear gloves, so the touch makes her gasp from the cold. But as she slowly strokes his thumb against her cheekbone over the tissue, she leans into it. The wind howls as strongly as her beating heart.

“You did great, Sumi,” Akira whispers. “You’re a force of nature.”

She smiles and lowers her own mask to show it.

“I would’ve never thought to reach this point. And I still have so much to achieve… but in a way, I’m looking forward to it like never before.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I want to train even more and surpass my limits. I think I could go back to practice right now. I’m feeling so fired up, it’s actually a bit scary to sit with.”

Akira gifts her a subtle grin and clenches her tighter while leaning closer in a way that, even to her, isn’t subtle at all.

“Careful not to overdo it, all right?”

She’s allowed but the time of a nod before Akira kisses her. His lips are cold for just a heartbeat, then Sumire is pressing back with intent, and her nerves light up just like the city outside, the forecast of a short circuit.

Her heart beats and the wind howls yet both can’t cover for the distinct snap of a phone shutter closing.

Jerking back, she finds Akechi studying the screen of his phone. He raises his gaze to them, frowning.

“What? It made for a nice shot. Akira always complains he never takes souvenir photos.”

He flashes the picture to them: Akira, with his trademark nest of curls carved out from the night thanks to the city of Kitakyushu in the backlight, a breath away from kissing a girl that is so distinctly Sumire, with strands of hair set ablaze by those same lights. It’s so candid, it makes her heart swell.

“It is a nice shot,” Akira concedes, chuckling.

“Isn’t it? Should I post it somewhere?”

He smirks like the devil. Sumire squeaks, face turning red and hot.

“Please don’t.”

“Oh, I would never. And I’m honestly offended you would believe I could.” He pockets the phone, humming to himself. “Come on, we ought to head back. You wouldn’t want to be late for the closing ceremony, would you?”

He strides towards the cable railway station, leaving Akira humored and Sumire ruffled. Her blood is still pulsing at her temples from the embarrassment.

“How does he do that?” she groans.

“Dunno. Isn’t he sexy, though?”

“Akira, you have the most questionable definition of ‘sexy’ I ever came across.”

“Touche.”

Chapter Text

The heating system fills Sumire’s mind with white noise, the engine whirring with fans spinning. Wetting her lips, she raises on her tiptoes and begins the rotations of her fuetté turns, and the ribbon’s tail swirls around her body following the kinetic force.

One turn, two, three… her heel touches the ground, causing her to trip into her own feet.

Again?!

She shoves that aside, takes a few steps back, and resumes the choreography from the connection after the previous move.

One turn, two… she trips again. Grits her teeth. Readjusts her posture and tries again.

One turn, two, three, four, five… the ribbon’s wand slips from her fingers. Groaning, she kneels on the fuzzy fabric of the thin practice mat to retrieve it. To think she’s supposed to do eight of those… sometimes she doubts she’s even capable of that at all.

No, that’s no use. She just has to practice even more, again and again and again until eight fuetté turns with passé come out perfectly. They’re going for the highest difficulty of her career with this new Ribbon routine, and just because she chose to start by introducing only five or six of them into the upcoming competitions, it doesn’t mean she shouldn’t aim at what this routine is truly supposed to look like.

She clenches the thin handle of her practice ribbon and stands up – too quickly at that, as yellow and black spots paint her vision, giving her an unwanted remark.

“Sumire?” coach Hiraguchi walks closer to her, analyzing her stance. “Is everything alright? Oiwa-san is about to complete her review so we can move over there and revise some bits at the Ribbon with music.”

“Yes, coach.” She nods, ignoring the lingering noise dotting Coach Hiraguchi’s face.

“Very well. We’ll test apparatus difficulties and dance steps with music, and then risks separately.”

“Again? I thought we were close to wrapping everything together…”

She’s met with a doubtful frown and squirms a little.

“No, I can see you’re growing tired. Besides, it’s not like you have a competition tomorrow. Your stamina needs to be improved a lot, true, but you also need to rest. So, that’s about everything else we will do today.”

Sumire lowers her gaze and starts rolling the tail of the ribbon back together.

“… yes, ma’am.”

“C’mon, don’t make that face. It’s Christmas Eve, don’t you have some date to look forward to tonight?”

She squeaks, turning red and warm. She did agree to meet Akira for a stroll past Kachidoki Bridge and through Ginza…

“Well, yes, but—”

“No ‘buts’. I appreciate your dedication but you must not overexert yourself. The holidays are about to begin, so take this time to slow down and hang out with friends and family, and from January 2^nd we’ll resume the training. Ball and Hoop are going great so far, don’t they?”

“I guess…”

Coach Hiraguchi gives her a light pat on the back and strolls past her. “Come, it seems Oiwa-san has finished with the exhibition mat. The spotlight’s all yours.”

And isn’t that great?

She lightly shakes her head, willing sour thoughts to go away. If Coach says she’s not ready to perform this routine in its entirety yet, she must have her reasons. And knowing she still has a full evening ahead of her, it’s probably wise not to wear herself out even more than she already is… God, it wasn’t really that smart of her to propose they walked all the way to Ginza. But she hadn’t seen Akira in weeks and he asked if she wanted to do something special for Christmas Eve but she knew he’s still not getting paid for his articles most of the time so a walk under the lights seemed such a great compromise and—

“Music’s about to start in 30 seconds,” Coach Hiraguchi announces.

Sumire hastens to assume her starting position: body straight, wand of the ribbon between her toes, and left leg crossed over her right, with arms hugging her body.

The piano picks up immediately and she opens her body to a front split pivot, and as her right foot raises above her head, she picks the ribbon’s handle from her toes and waves it in the air around herself. Every time she practices this routine, she’s astounded by how quickly the piano notes run, especially when accompanied by violin and percussions, to the point where she’s left wondering if they didn’t overshoot with this one. She never did particularly well with cutthroat music, as her time performing with Kasumi’s had proved.

But they selected this one together, with Sumire fully knowing it would’ve posed a great challenge. The melancholic yet hopeful mood was just perfect for what she had in mind, and she’s hoping that practicing it over and over will hammer the nail down eventually.

She manages to execute all five fuetté turns, her most consistent average for now, but she just knows she’s not hitting quite the right shape with the pivots nor with the split balances.

She trots where a risk would be and readies for the drastic change in music, when everything slows down to just the piano again – a figurative slowdown, more precisely. There’s really not enough time to pause, just for a quick but strong shift for Character criteria, to build up towards the Artistic and Execution scores. As the piano picks up again, she dances with her ribbon and skips the next risk just on the verge of another turn in the music. Her routine speeds up, and her lungs start to ache. What comes after is the hardest combination of moves of her career but she enjoys the story she’s conveying quite a lot; the piano is yet again accompanied by the violin and then percussions, and it’s almost as if she’s not performing alone. Despite how taxing it is for her body, she loves how powerful this routine is shaping to be.

A quick sequence of sweet notes comes up and she jumps off the ground for the turning split leaps – one, two, three…

Her lower back tenses with pain. She lands, more or less stumbling, and recovers to proceed with her performance.

Damn it!

A fourth leap is supposed to be there but she doesn’t seem to be able to stand that with her current shape.

She eventually transitions to the final pivots, and the piano slows down too, leading her to the end of the routine and her finishing stance, with the hand holding the ribbon close to her chest and the other one distended forward.

The gym’s whirring resumes, and two short claps from Hiraguchi signal the end of her review. Heaving, she walks closer to her coach.

“I messed up the splits, didn’t I?”

“Not too badly, but all your balances weren’t in their best shape. Some judges wouldn’t have given you even the benefit of the doubt.”

“I just knew it…”

“It’s a positive thing that you’re becoming progressively more aware of yourself while performing but don’t let minor mistakes define your whole performance. We’ve already spoken about that many times.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, show me the risks.”

Sumire nods and positions herself near the closest corner of the mat so that she can execute the throw and then five rotations underneath. This is the first of three risks and the easiest one, yet maybe because it’s right at the beginning, it’s the one she screws more often.

Never mind. She’ll just have to practice even more, until all her moves are impeccable, and her execution accurate enough that she can stop worrying.

Despite not being dinner hour yet when she emerges from the gate of Aeon Club, the night has already covered Koto City and the Odaiba Bay with a thick coat of black, and her stomach gurgles accordingly. She readjusts the gym back on her shoulder and surveys her surroundings in search of the mop of curls she could recognize in the middle of a crowd.

Akira stands with his back to one of the brick pillars sustaining the outer fence. Wind swipes his hair and the lapel of a deep gray coat, and the street lamps reflect in his gaze, lost into the lane across and then out, towards the open sea.

“Hey, Sumi,” he says, turning to her with the glint of a smile in his gaze.

“Ow, did you learn to read minds?  I barely passed the gate.”

He shrugs, securing his face mask. “Thief’s sense, I suppose. Com’here.”

Sumire trots to him without being told twice and embraces him with the arm not securing the bag to her shoulder. She meets fuzzy fabric and cold skin, and the smell of spices mixed with the faint remaining of some cologne, one she’s willing to bet actually belongs to Akechi.

“Missed you.”

“You too. How was practice?”

“All good. We’re progressing.”

It’s not entirely false, and she’s too tired to recount the whole thing; still, Akira detaches from the hug and gives her a worried once-over.

“Want me to carry your bag?”

A polite refusal rolls on her tongue. It’d be the correct response to give but for some reason, she can’t seem to will that out.

Her hesitance must be enough, though, as Akira extends his arm out in a silent request. Blushing, she slips the handler from her shoulder and concedes to giving him the bag. The loss of weight on her muscles aches but in a good way, and she restrains herself from stretching out to soothe her lower back, too. Those jumps might’ve been a bit too harsh on her.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. I won’t pry if you don’t want to share but you look really tired.”

“Even you say that…” she mutters, looking away.

“Mh?”

Damn, she didn’t want to sound whiny.

“It’s nothing,” she replies, beginning to walk down the road to Kachidoki Bridge. “I’m perfecting my Ribbon routine and some bits are giving me more trouble than expected. Coach Hiraguchi won’t revise the whole choreography until I’m rested after the holidays.”

“I like your coach,” he nods with too much vigor. “Even though she scares me.”

Sumire can’t help a giggle. “She tends to have that effect on everyone, yes. Did she and Akechi ever meet?”

“No, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I think they should. It’d be very funny.”

Humming lowly, she stops by a crosswalk. The curved steel of Kachidoki is already peeking through the buildings further ahead.

Sumire nibs at her lower lip, considering what to say. This should be a fun date, something they can’t have that often, what with pandemic restrictions and her insane training schedule, and she shouldn’t bring the mood down. Yet she truly doesn’t have it in her to be cheerful, not even in a non-honest way… so might as well share something of what is going on.

She turns to her right to look at Akira.

“I update you on gymnastics and you update me on your ‘jobs’. Deal?”

“Ah. You’ve mastered the tactic by now, haven’t you?” He brushes the back of his head with his free hand and gives her a nod. “I can’t pass on you spilling the beans so I guess I’ll have to agree. Deal.”

The light turns green for pedestrians and they resume their walk.

“So,” Akira presses on, “your routines.”

“Yes. You see, normally one Code of Points lasts about four years, from one Olympic to the next. But since the 2020 Games were postponed to this year, the 2017 Code will be effective until December 31^st. Starting from January, the new one will replace the current, so we’re working at four new routines for the next, uhm, season if you want to call it that.”

“Right. I remember you telling me something about concepts, back at the JGA training camp this summer. Will they be the same throughout the whole bit?”

“Not at all. It’s in fact a widespread practice for gymnasts to change and adjust their routines from one competition to the next. Usually, the base is the same with minor or major changes made, but sometimes, some gymnasts opt for a new concept and music, too. I truly hope I won’t come to that.”

“Not a fan of big changes?”

“Not at all. Back when I was still performing with Kasumi’s tracks, it was a bit traumatic having to relearn whole routines mid-season, I don’t want to do that again.”

“I see. But you’ve said there are some hassles.”

Sumire exhales, nodding. Breath condenses over the tip of her nose, under the mask.

Kachidoki Bridge extends before them, its usual white lights mingling with golden sparkles and decorations for the season. The bay water sloshes underneath, with specks of yellow glowing on the waves’ crests. They venture under the metal arch that defines the bridge’s upper portion. There’s quite a frenzy going on within the pedestrian zone, matched by a flurry of cars rushing past over the bushes fence – surely, they’re coming and going from Tsukiji Market in search of supplies for festive banquets.

She subtly leans closer to Akira with the excuse of making more room for passersby and bikers. He’s always so warm…

“Yes, there are some hassles. You see, after consulting with the JGA technical committee this summer, Coach Hiraguchi and I agreed to work to build more of my stamina. Execution has always been my forte compared to Difficulty, and the new Code even introduces Artistic score… but some of the elements I used to execute when I was younger aren’t an option anymore. Some have even been banned due to putting too much hurdle on gymnasts’ bodies. In the end, if I want to score higher, I have to adopt choreographies that aim at a higher D score, too.” She smiles between herself and hides a bit of her chin into the scarf. “Kasumi would’ve thrived so much with these Codes, she always went for the most technical and challenging elements. I could never match her skills and still to this day, I don’t think insanely difficult routines are what’s best for me so it’s always a matter of compromise. Coach Hiraguchi and I butt heads about this sometimes, because I tend to want to keep easier elements that have a lot of artistry. They make me feel safer. But she’s right, I can’t and must not rely solely on what I do best. So we agreed to push the D score way up with these new routines.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Not spectacularly”, she admits, with shame pooling in her guts. “But as I was saying, most gymnasts tweak their exhibitions before nearly every major competition. So, for now, we’re aiming a bit lower to get me started and then work our way to bring out the routines as they’ve been conceived.”

“I see. That sounds like a lot of work. But nothing you can’t handle, I am sure.”

She lightly elbows him in the side. “You always say that.”

“It’s just true! You’re one of the most dedicated people I know. Aside from the batshit crazy training regimen you follow, I would simply go mad if you asked me to memorize and follow a Code down to every comma.”

“It’s not that we gymnasts don’t find our way around the Code, you know. But I get what you’re saying.”

“Right? I wasn’t built for following rules.” He gives her an impish chuckle.

“I won’t argue with that,” she huffs out a breathy laugh. It’s good being with Akira again. Her life has been a toggle between her bedroom, her parents’ house, and the Club; between her parents and her Coach and fellow gymnasts. It’s something to be grateful for, that she’s allowed to actually go to the gym for practice now. It’s just that… her life seems to have narrowed down to so little sometimes. What she’s going after… she can’t deny possessing a strong dedication, still she can’t help but trouble herself over what will it be of all this if she doesn’t have what it gets to reach the top, again.

Her mind runs to Kitakyushu, to how powerful she felt after her sixth-in-the-world spot. It’s so vile that her mind jumps at the first chance to taint that memory with a million unwanted questions – will she ever be able to replicate that result? To score even better? What if that was pure chance? After all, she performed with routines perfectioned over the course of 4 years… what if the moment she steps under the lights with her new ones, she fails?

Pricks of something she can’t name but recognizes very well sting into her chest, and up her throat. Where did all her determination go? This is the path she chose, this is her dream, of course she has to work harder than anyone else to get what she wants. In the end, that is the core of it: work. Training. Improvement. The more, the better. So that she can hone her skills and shine like a diamond under the spotlight.

Warm fingers close around her own. She forgot her gloves in a hurry to get ready this morning, and only now does she realize how freezing her hands are.

Akira is studying her. He’s trying to keep the worry at bay but some of it is seeping through the cracks. It’s in the slimmer cut of his eyes, in the way wrinkles appear on his forehead under the bounce of his curls. She hates that it always comes to this, him worrying and her leaning on him for support. She should be able to stand on her legs by now.

“Sorry, I just lost it for a bit. It’s okay now. And I already talked a lot, I don’t want to steal the scene! Please, it’s your turn now.”

“Deflecting by asking for my problems? I’m starting to worry you’ll steal all my best techniques.”

She grins at him. If anything, she’s improved her diversion moves, and it’s easier to shove down the malign whispers of her mind for later.

“Learned from the best. As I was saying, your turn.”

“Jeez, okay, okay, hold on.” He raises the handle of her gym bag to shift it to his other shoulder but Sumire blocks him.

“I can take care of this one now. Thank you for helping me out.”

“Are you sure? Didn’t look like it but this bag is chunky.”

“I know,” she laughs. “But don’t worry, I rested enough.”

“If you insist…”

“I do.”

“Well then.” He hands the bag back to her. She accepts it over her other shoulder, the one she didn’t stress before. It’s more unpleasant than what she predicted but she smiles through it so that Akira stops worrying over her. They’re nearing the other side of Kachidoki Bridge, and the bustling mass outside the Outer Market is swarming stronger than anywhere else. She reclaims Akira’s hand, subtly slipping her fingers through his.

“So?”

“So, indeed. God, where do I start…” he passes ha hand through his curls, exhaling. “I managed to pass all my exams so I’ll be graduating this March.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah, I guess it is. It didn’t come free of charge, though. Balancing both school work and Ohya’s work had been hell, also since I had to score high in everything because of course employers want top grades even in courses that have nothing to do with journalism…”

“That’s… not so great. I’m sorry.”

“Eh, it’s in the past now.” He shrugs but now that he’s mentioned it, he does look more tired than usual. The realization brings back another wave of shame to her.

“No, truly, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.”

“You were busy being amazing so there’s nothing to forgive.”

“Did they, uhm, pay you at least?”

Akira winces, averting his look. “Now, you don’t ask a man his salary.”

“I don’t mean to press but… is there one, then?”

“A salary would imply some form of contract or regularity so I won’t claim to have one but I’m finding more paid gigs than before. I’m counting that a win.”

She sighs. As they leave the Tsukiji Outer Market past their shoulders, the streets become not quiet, but calmer, at least for the standard of a Christmas Eve. The white and fuchsia sign of a 777 store comes into sight on the left side of the lane and past that, the skyscraper towering over one of the many entries to Higashi-Ginza Station. Akira squeezes her hand tighter as if giving a little apology.

“Hey. I know it doesn’t look good but it’ll pay off. And about that…” he fishes his phone out of his trench pocket and proudly shows her something on the screen. It’s a sushi venture – and not the conveyor-belt type.

Sumire gawks, taken aback, but Akira cuts any of her replies off. “I found this spot that serves stellar-quality sushi at an acceptable price. They buy directly from the Toyosu Wholesale fish market.”

“Akira, really, you didn’t need—”

“I gave Sojiro a hand some of these past weekends so don’t think too hard about it. I’m not that broke.” He clicks on a link and the map app opens on the screen, signaling an 8-minute walk from where they stand. “Just felt like treating you to a nice dinner,” he smiles.

She blushes, and with that comes a full-body shiver that makes the hair pressed at the back of her neck between skin and scarf particularly itchy.

“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting it in the slightest… I guess you haven’t lost your touch with surprises.”

“Not at all,” he quips back, leaning closer to bump their noses together through the masks. “Any other requests?”

Sumire chews the inner side of her cheek, stretching her neck to give some respite to the shoulder holding the gym bag. She’s already fighting back yawns, and her awareness, the grip on things, is starting to swarm with the accumulated tiredness of the day. She should go home and have a good rest – more so since tomorrow morning, her grandparents will come to visit the family and her dad already placed an order for the biggest size of fried chicken. But Akira’s put so much effort into planning this, she refuses to let him down. Maybe there is something she can offer in return…

“Yes, actually. I overheard some of the other athletes talking about a bar in Ginza that serves tea-based drinks. They were all over the moon over it because they also offer non-alcoholic options.” She takes courage and leans closer to Akira until their noses brush again. Her hand is a strong hold on his. “If that’s something you’d like, the after-dinner is on me.”

“I’d love nothing more,” he purrs back, making her squirm. But she does her best to hold her ground.

“Perfect.”

They cross the road and have to give up on holding hands among the pedestrians still lurking in the twists and turns of one of Tokyo’s many hearts. Still, Sumire lingers closer to Akira’s left side, keeping her gym back hanging on her opposite hip, a tedious reminder.

She’s always been so used to loathe herself that she never resented gymnastics itself. After today, her mind seems to have found yet another way to play her dirty tricks.

Sumire swoons in front of the mirror, checking that her kimono still fits her shape. It’s grown tighter around the shoulders, but nothing worth purchasing a new one over. It’s so rare for her to wear yellow, she’s so used to the cold colors of her leotards…

She fixes the matching ribbon holding her half-updo in place for the millionth time – she swears each time she glances over there, the pin is hunching on the wrong side, breaking the symmetry. She nods to her reflection and carefully steps back, with her sandals clicking against the floor.

“Dad, I’m ready!” she announces opening the door to the corridor.

Her dad peeks over from the living room, checking her out with a smile.

“Do you need a lift to the station?”

“I’m good already, but thank you!”

“Are you going with Kurusu-kun?”

She recoils, stuttering. “Y-yes.”

“Ah, it is always either him or the gym, isn’t it?” he sighs, shaking his head with a bit of over-dramatic flair.

“Dad! I’m not fifteen anymore. Besides, the others will be there too…”

He crosses the corridor and stops in front of the door, opening it for her.

“I know, I know. Make sure not to be too late for lunch, alright? You know how it is with your relatives.”

“Promise. See you later!” She waves him goodbye and heads to the elevator.

On the first floor, just outside the main gate, a car she’s never seen down the street of her house is waiting in front of the entrance, on a free aisle for transit. It’s of a cold, rich shade of gray and well cared for – she might’ve mistaken it for a new one if the numbers on the plate didn’t give away its real age. The window facing her lowers and Akira’s face pops out in a cloud of breath.

“Hey, Sumi!” he waves at her before scooting back a little, so that Akechi’s profile can peek out from the driver’s seat.

“Yoshizawa, good morning. And Happy New Year.”

“You too! Thank you for coming here for me. I, uhm, had no idea you had a car.”

Akechi waves a gloved hand as if to say that’s nothing special. “Pandemic restrictions made traveling for work undergo a lot of checkings and we couldn’t always have that so this was the most practical solution. Is seating in the back fine for you?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Eh,” Akira adds, grinning, “I get to have passenger’s privileges for once.”

“Excuse me?” Akechi glares at him. “Care to remind me who does most of the driving around?”

“I’d do that a lot more if you let me in the first place.”

“Not until you’re insured for this car, you don’t.”

Sumire restrains a sigh and hops on. She squeezes behind Akira’s seat, careful not to wrinkle the kimono too badly, and lays the matching purse into her lap.

Finding one parking that still has space in an acceptable enough range from Yoyogi’s West entrance is quite the challenge, and keeping formation amongst the swarm of visitors is even harder. This first temple visit of the year is a far cry from the peaceful get-together that Maruki’s reality gifted them 5 years ago – the paved path to Meiji-Jingu, sided by the forest, is bustling with people and all sorts of colors. Sumire is mindful to keep closer to Akira’s arm, who is in turn careful to never swing too distant from Akechi’s.

She opens her purse with care and takes the upper half of her phone out, but the screen gives off no signal.

“I have no reception,” she groans.

“Hold on, lemme try with mine. See if Futaba worked her magic.”

As if summoned, Akira’s phone buzzes alive in his pocket, and he picks up the call.

“Futaba?” He frowns, trying to concentrate on what she’s saying. Nods. Nods again.

“Okay, see you there, then.” He pockets the phone back and shares the news. “She and Morgana are waiting with Sojiro near the entrance already.”

“That’s great!” Sumi beams. Between everyone’s obligations and the pandemic, it feels like the last time she spent meaningful time with the whole group was in a year that was still part of the 10s.

They keep walking, and the deeper they venture into the park, the thicker the masses become. Despite no one truly raising their voice, the sum of all hushed conversations and breathy laughs covered by face masks generates a thrum that strikes straight to her temples. She’s not nearly as tired as she was on Christmas Eve yet she’s starting to fear how long she’ll manage to resist in the crowd.

They follow the flow into an opening on the road to their right, where a pebbled square comes into sight dotted with smaller trees, and past that, the torii splits the wooden fence of Meiji-Jingu into two, signaling the entrance to the temple area.

Leaning against a trunk, a blotch of orange hair stands out, leading to a face hunched on a smartphone, intent on frantically tapping to the rhythm of a pop idol song. The stage ends, majestically on time, and Futaba greets them with a toothy smile and the sparkling sound effect of a full combo.

“Happy New Year!”

She hands her phone to Sakura-san and trots to hug Akira tight, who answers with a surprised oof.

“What’s the matter? You’ve seen me only last week for Christmas.”

“Mh-mh. Don’t care.”

He pats her head with one hand and scratches Morgana’s chin with the other while shooting both Sumire and Akechi an apologetic look. She quietly giggles and crosses her eyes with Sakura-san, who’s carefully taking in all three of them together. Her face heats up, skin crawling. She never asked Akira if he ever disclosed the details of their… triple arrangement. She sure didn’t with her parents.

But Sakura-san doesn’t seem to need a lot. His gaze warms under the hat he’s wearing, and he nods to them both. “Sumire, detective. Happy New Year to you.”

“To you as well,” she replies, bowing.

“Still going with that?” Akechi adds, in a tone that’s way less rough than his usual, almost a trace of endearment in it. Count her surprised when he bows as well.

The man chuckles. “Have you changed jobs since I last saw you? It’s been not even a week.”

“No, you’re still technically correct. Happy New Year, Sakura-san.”

The other huffs under the mask, eyes turning sharper with a knowing allure. “Heh. If you happen to see your boss’ grandfather, tell him Sojiro Sakura says hi.”

There’s a tight gulp in Akechi’s stance, but he recovers from it. “I’ll make sure to if the chance occurs.”

Akira’s way less subtle, staring at him.

“Sojiro, just how big is your net of contacts?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, kid? It’ll do you well to remember it, especially if one of your articles gets you in trouble one of these days.”

“Yessir!”

“Sorry to interrupt your recap,” Futaba barges in, “Ann just contacted me, she and the others are close.”

And as she says that, something red flashes in the crowd, creating an opening from which Ann emerges victorious, with Ryuji at her side.

“Hey there!” She waves them a hand, eyes glinting, and her blond curls swirl hanging from one single high ponytail. Beside her, Ryuji also gives them a hand gesture. Dark roots have taken over his head, with just hints of bleached ends spiking up here and there.

“Yo, Happy New Year.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Akira asks, exchanging a high five with Ryuji.

“Lost ‘em at some point near the turn but they’re comin’.”

He also gives Akira a powerful smack on his shoulder, which causes the other to flinch.

“Man, you’re practically 2D at this point, are you even eatin’?”

“I do!” He whines back.

“Nah that won’t do. You’re comin’ with me for monja sometime soon. Can’t have you reachin’ graduation lookin’ like a sheet of paper, am I right?” He glances at Ann, who shakes her head.

“You two have fun with that. If my manager could see what I’m eating these days…”

“You’re no fun!” he protests and, pouting, he turns to Sumire with the expecting eyes of a puppy asking for scratches.

She wiggles her hands in an awkward movement, stepping slightly back.

“Oh, thank you for the invitation, but I’ll have to decline as well. I have to resume my training starting tomorrow, so…”

“Tomorrow?!” Ryuji gawks. “Talk about the holidays, huh? How much time do you even spend at the gym?”

“Uhm… six to eight hours a day, probably. Sometimes it’s more when an important meeting is approaching.”

“What?” Futaba adds, blinking. “That’s a super lot of time. How are you even still alive?”

“Well, by now I’d say that I’m used to it honestly.” She twirls a strand of hair around her fingers, trying her best to stifle the tension rising into her chest. She’s always thought about training as part of her work; if compared to corporate life, she probably spends less time on her job daily than any average salaryman. Not that they have to execute highly complex coordination exercises and dance steps to the tunes of music, though…

She retraces the conversation back to Ryuji’s invitation. Is it the right thing for her to do, to preemptively cut herself from everything else aside from gymnastics? Did the pandemic shape her life the wrong way?

Still, knowing the tight fit of her usual schedule and how tired she is at the end of the day, it doesn’t seem too likely that she can attend that…

“Great, you’ve frozen her,” Ryuji grumbles, elbowing Futaba.

“Shit, I knew I picked the wrong dialogue…”

“Futaba!” Sojiro reprimands, “Watch your language.”

“Like I’m still fifteen!” she says, jutting her chin forward as if sticking her tongue out under the mask.

Sumire giggles at that. She collects her heavy thoughts and shoves everything aside. She can deal with it later – now, she must not sour the mood.

“Don’t worry. I knew what I was getting into the moment I decided to run for Paris. I have one year less than usual to be ready for the Olympics and I have to make every day count.”

Ann whistles lowly, nodding. “Wow, you’re so mature. I lowkey envy you. But hey, Paris did you say? I had no idea the next Olympics would be there. Feel free to come visit anytime, okay?”

“You’re living there?”

“Yes! My agency is based there so I travel between France and Japan a lot. Who would’ve thought I would’ve ended up as my parents…”

“Heh, at least you’re seein’ the world,” Ryuji adds, kicking the air. “All I see these days are boring school forms.”

“Will you start teaching this spring, then?” Akira asks.

“Oh man, no, don’t say that like I’m becoming a real professor or somethin’. I’ll just be trainin’ the track team of a school near my mom’s house. Shoulda started last year but ya know how it’s been.”

Everyone nods, agreeing in silence. Training alone, sometimes even inside her own house, has been a tough blow to her morale but she can understand that everyone had a rough two years… and even now it’s difficult to properly see the light at the end.

Before the air can thicken too much, Ann gestures to Akechi, trying to yank him into the conversation.

“Hey, you’ve been pretty quiet. Everything’s alright on your end?”

“I have nothing to lament, yes. I’m working quite a lot but nothing I can’t handle.” His eyes shift out of focus, searching further down the entryway, until his stance stiffens with recognition. “I believe our missing ones made it out of the crowd, eventually.” His voice is kept plain, yet Sumire can recognize the trembling balance of uncertainty between relief and annoyance. She shoots a glance at Akira, who subtly nods to her as if to reassure her that everything is fine.

Trying to shake away the feeling that this is a political meeting more than any other regular Hatsumode, Sumire turns to Makoto, Yusuke and Haru approaching them. They’re all dressed up in traditional clothing, three spots of pink, bright blue, and muted tones in the sea of people.

As the ex-Phantom Thieves gather back together, some hugging, some clasping hands, she silently shifts closer to Akechi’s side.

“There’s no need,” he half-hisses under his breath while keeping a polite expression plastered on his face.

“I’m aware,” she replies. Still smiling, she doesn’t leave her spot.

Chapter Text

“Happy Birthday!”

A chorus of voices overwhelms her as a rain of colorful confetti lands on her navy gym suit and all over her messy bun. Her fellow athletes from the Aeon Club all clap their hands, an unexpected celebration, and while Sumire gawks at them with her cheeks hitting the temperature of the Sun, Coach Hiraguchi eyes her with the smile of a cat.

Oiwa-san, the best contender for an Olympic spot beside herself, detaches from the group, offering her a squared package, all shiny black with elegant writing in gold on top. Her dark bangs are still plastered on the side of her round face from the training, but despite her sharp eyes, she’s smiling warmly.

“We brought you a gift to celebrate.”

“Oh! Thank you so much… I don’t know what to say…”

She picks up the cardboard box and checks for the opening: it reveals a big slice of patisserie strawberry shortcake, with even a small chocolate oval plate on top with the logo of the store – some fancy spot in the center of Shibuya she’s sure she saw on one of Ann’s magazines. It even comes with a small fork.

“This looks delicious. Thank you very much, you all!”

The other gymnasts cheer for her and begin singing a not-too-in-tune birthday rhyme. Her heart throbs – she surely isn’t the first one to have her birthday happen during a training day, yet they went out of their way for her…

Keeping tears both happy and embarrassed at bay, she picks up the tiny plastic fork, no less shiny than the rest of the package, and cuts the point of the cake. The sponge is soft as a pillow and just moist enough with syrup not to taste too sweet. The whipped cream is amazing, rich yet worked to be as light as a cloud, and the strawberries add that sour note that nearly has her cry over how good everything is.

“So, how is it?” Oiwa-san asks with sparkling eyes.

“As delicious as it looks!”

She cuts herself another, smaller piece. She can’t devour it too quickly, both out of politeness and seeing that she doesn’t eat delicacies like this one often.

Another athlete comes closer, swinging her smartphone in the air.

“Hey, let’s take a picture with everyone!”

Now?!

Sumire swallows her bite and stretches a timid smile. She’s sweaty and messy and tired, there’s probably cream and crumbs at the corner of her mouth, and she has to be home soon… but everyone is looking at her expectantly, so she scoots over the rest of the group and takes position in the front.

“Smile!” the girl says, flipping the camera setting to selfie. Sumire pulls her cheeks up but tries to show only a hint of teeth, lest she have something nested in there. The shutter goes off with a loud click and the screen blinks white for a second. Buzzing with energy, the girl checks out the result.

“Awesome, I’ll post it on Insta. Yoshizawa-san, what’s your handle? I’ll tag everyone.”

“Oh! Uhm…” she squints, trying to remember it. She hardly ever uses her socials and can hear Akechi’s voice chastising her for it.

“Never mind, I’ve already found you. Just… let me add a filter. Yeah, this one works. And… done!”

She turns the phone to her, proudly showing the post. Sumire nods politely.

“Thank you, Minagawa-san. I’ll be sure to check it.”

The group starts dispersing after the photo, with duos and trios chattering with one another. Relieved not to be the sole person under the spotlight – that is a thing she’d much rather leave for competitions alone – Sumire takes another bite at her slice of cake. It really is delicious, and she would gladly have a second one but she’s already risking to ruin her appetite.

Without much fuss, she takes little steps away from the other gymnasts, so that she can exit the scene with ease as soon as she’s finished.

“Sneaking out of your own party?” Coach Hiraguchi comments. Busted.

“Oh, no, please don’t say it like that. I’m honored that everyone thought about me today…”

“… but you have somewhere else to be.”

Sumire blushes, looking away. “Yes.”

Her Coach chuckles. “I won’t be keeping you here for longer than what’s necessary then. I just wanted to share a word with you while you finish eating your cake.”

Self-conscious about how she must look with her mouth open, in the process of ingesting both the cake and one of the strawberries on top, Sumire blocks halfway through the movement before her brain can rewire after the short circuit. She lowers the fork, slowly, but the chunk must be too big and it ends up splattering on the floor.

“Oh no! What a mess, I am so sorry…”

Mortified, she lowers to her knee and rummages through her sweater’s pocket for a tissue. She scoops the splattered cake from the floor before anyone can notice the disaster she made of their present and scrunches everything inside her fist. Maybe it’s best if she waits to be home before eating the rest…

Quietly, she turns back to standing and closes the box. After all – what did they say? – you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.

“I’m all ears,” she says with a nod, and Coach Hiraguchi nods back.

“Alright. I’ll take this very short: the World Games are being held in the USA this summer. They should’ve been last year but have been postponed to this July due to the 2020 Olympics being held in 2021 instead. You qualified for a spot by being amongst the best 24 gymnasts in Baku during the 2019 World Championships.”

2019?

She can hardly begin to recollect what she was doing, who she even was in 2019. It seems like a lifetime ago.

“That’s great!”

“Indeed. This event is peculiar, as there won’t be any All-Around competition – just singular apparatus events. So, I’d say it will be an optimal testing ground for your new routines before Sofia this September.”

Sumire nods, worrying with her teeth over her lower lip. This year’s World Championships in Sofia is the first event that offers qualification spots for Paris 2024 and she must be sure to be in the run for it.

“Got it. Then I’ll be in my top shape.”

“This is what I wanted to hear.” Coach Hiraguchi gives her a little slap on her shoulder blades and pairs it with a grin. “You’re doing good with the new routines in training but I want to make sure you also test them in another important meeting before the Worlds come around.” She gives her another pat of encouragement and makes her spin around, facing the corridor that leads to the changing rooms. “Go now. I said my piece, you can go home. We’ll discuss more technical details first thing tomorrow, yes?”

The entire evening flashes before Sumire’s eyes: Akira’s graduation party, her birthday party, Ryuji dragging everyone out for drinks, and Sumire who won’t be able to say no to one (1) beer once a year. She swallows dry.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Have a good evening, and don’t party too hard!”

She cracks a guilty smile and waves her the hand not holding the cake box. From a logical standpoint, she knows Coach Hiraguchi is right. She also knows Akira won’t be mad at her if she excuses herself early if it’s for training reasons, even if it’s his graduation party, even if tomorrow is Saturday. But she usually turns down so many invitations already… maybe it won’t hurt if she overstays a bit…

Halfway into the corridor, she takes the left and opens the security door to the changing room with her shoulder. She heads straight for her spot and places the cake box right next to her bag. Drawing out the phone from the inner pocket, she unlocks the screen to take a look at the time: 7.18 pm.

Her heart misses a beat.

“Oh no, I’m so late!”

She shoves the clothes she came with inside the bag – she’ll have to take a shower at home either way, there’s no use in changing now – zips the edges closed, throws her jacket on, and grabs the present before she can forget it there. Oh, damn, she didn’t even say goodbye to everyone before heading out… but she’s late… but it’s really not polite to disappear like that, isn’t it?

Sighing, she turns on her heels and strides back in the direction she came from. There is no way in heaven she will make it to her appointment on time and this will evolve into a very annoyed Akechi.

Sumire storms through the front door of her house, barely announcing her return, and kicks off her sneakers to flee into her room. She discards the gym bag at the foot of her bed – she will sort out laundry from equipment tomorrow before training – and trots into the bathroom where she throws herself under the showerhead and then into the tub.

Someone knocks on the door from the outside.

“Yes?”

“Sumire?” her mother calls, worry tainting her voice. “Is everything okay?”

Damn it. It’s her birthday and she’s spent not even breakfast with her parents and will be out all night and at the Aeon Club again all day tomorrow. She splashes water against her face to distract her mind from spinning too much and steadies her voice.

“Yes! Sorry for the haste, I’m just really, really late.”

“Oh, that’s no good to hear. Should we postpone our pre-dinner celebration, then?”

Shit. The pre-dinner. The small, familial gathering she agreed to so that her parents could actually be with her on her birthday. Guilt creeps through her guts into her chest.

“… yes, please. I’m so, so sorry.” It hurts like a missed catch, like a knot in the ribbon. It’s a defeat. But it’s already past 8 pm and Akechi will be here in ten minutes and she’s still in the bathtub.

“It’s okay, don’t worry sweetheart. We’ll celebrate on Sunday with your relatives too. You won’t be training that day, right?”

She doesn’t sound like she’s angry, maybe a bit disappointed, and surely more than a bit sad. Sumire clenches her fists underwater until nails dig into soft, soft flesh.

“That is perfect. Thank you.”

“I’ll go take out your dress for tonight, yes?” And before Sumire can answer, her voice grows more distant while she steps away from the bathroom door with a heavy sigh. “They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

Heaving air out of her chest, Sumire slips deeper into the tub. Water sloshes around her head until it fills her ears and cancels out every other noise… if only it could do the same with her worries, too. She allows herself sixty seconds to slip her eyelids close and gather herself back together – she must pull through this night, even if she feels like a mess, even if everyone will want updates on her training, and even if there are a million things she doesn’t like in her routines, despite how optimistic Coach Hiraguchi is being about them. Even if she will be late.

‘Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable,’ her Coach used to say. It would be so nice to have a button to press so that the world can stop running, racing to leave her behind while she scrambles to hold everything together.

But that would mean running away, and she’s not doing that anymore. Her sixty seconds are up, and she rises from the hot water, facing the humid chill of the bathroom with tensed muscles.

She wraps herself into a towel and strides back to her room to at least warn her (un)kind driver that she will be late – it’s the least she can do. Brief salute, no pleasantries, straight to the point, like pulling out a tooth. She sends the phone flying on her mattress without even witnessing the response.

Next to its landing spot, a long dress as sparkling as the night itself lays carefully distended on the duvet, with thin sleeves stretching out on both sides. Ann picked it for her, saying it was too close in shape to the upper half of a leotard to leave it on the rack but she doubts it will be as fitting on her. She wasn’t made to shine outside of competitions, after all.

No. Come on, Sumire.

She slaps her cheeks to shoo that train of thought away and carefully picks up the garment – it’s so thin, despite being as stretchy as a real leotard, that every movement feels like too much on its seams. She opens the invisible zipper lining the spine of the dress, lets the washcloth covering her fall on the ground, and steps into something even more skin-tight than any of her professional competition attire. Balancing her neck so that the towel barely containing her hair doesn’t fall off, she drags the dress up and slips the sleeves on. Despite all the minuscule glitters covering the surface, the fabric is incredibly soft and not itchy at all.

She bends on her side to give her best shot at zipping the lining closed, but her mother knocks again, against the wooden doorjamb this time.

“Need a hand with that?”

With heat bubbling under her cheeks, Sumire nods. Under the deft fingers of her mother, the zipper comes up with no issues, and she gets tilted by her shoulder to face the mirror.

The dress traces her shape perfectly, starting with a clear-cut hem that dutifully follows the line of her collarbones and encompasses the upper portion of her arms, just a few centimeters below the shoulders, and her shoulder blades into one single embrace. The sleeves fit her like gloves, and the long gown that barely hangs around her toes opens up with a vent near her right knee.

She looks like a movie star on the verge of a premiere night.

She doesn’t look like herself at all.

“Isn’t it too much?” she asks with a short breath, waiting for nothing more than the most subtle nod to strip naked and be done with the farce.

But her mother smiles at her through the mirror, and the crinkles at the corner of her eyes become little valleys. There is no trace of condescendence in it. “I think it suits you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Sumire keeps her mouth from pouting, and instead just nods. Her mother delicately taps the towel wrapped on her head.

“Need a hand also with this?”

She does her best to show a grimace but she can only laugh. “Mom. I am not five…”

“But you’re running late, don’t you? Come, I will take care of the hair while you do the make-up.”

She wheezes out another chuckle. “Where are you when I have to put forty bobby pins on my scalp before a recital?”

“Usually? On the other side of the world.”

Ice runs down her spine. Her mother keeps smiling sweetly, like she intended the line to be nothing more than a silly joke and, humming under her voice, she heads to the bathroom to get out the drier and brush for the hair-set.

Come to Paris with me, you and dad. It’s on the tip of her tongue. They would have the time of their lives – the kind of trip they had to give up after she and Kasumi were born and gymnastics took a more serious turn. They would come to cheer for her and spam every family gathering afterward with hundreds of pictures of her, even if she were to score last. But her father can’t usually take more than half a day of leave, and none of them can leave for a week-long vacation in another continent while her grandma remains here.

You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.

Slouching forward, she undoes the wrapping around her forehead with painfully slow movements and lets both hair and cloth fall on her shoulders. She starts brushing her scalp from the front so that no one will see if a tear or two drops down her chin. Swallowing hard, she pushes the knot in her throat down to be dealt with at a better time than right now and wipes wetness away from her eyes. Ten seconds. Ten seconds, and she’s good to go. She just has to breathe in, then keep it, then out, then rinse and repeat.

Okay. Let’s go.

She picks up her body towel, too, and deposits both in the laundry basket. Her mother is already waiting for her in front of the bathroom mirror, one hand holding the hairdryer and the other clenching a circular brush. Like when Sumire and Kasumi were five. Sometimes, her dad joined too, to make the process even quicker.

As her mother goes through the steps of straightening her hair, Sumire focuses on doing the simplest make-up she can while also not dishonoring the dress she’s wearing completely. Thank goodness, she has more than a few years of experience in applying glitters on the run between one round of Ribbon and the next round of Clubs.

By the end of everything, the clock strikes ten to nine pm and her phone vibrates for the fifth message in a row she hasn’t opened from Akechi.

‘Coming,’ she hastily types with her left thumb while securing the upper belt of her low-heel shoes. They make quite the noise on the wooden floor of the house but they’re not nearly as uncomfortable as they look – Ann was right yet again.

She slips into the long beige trench her mother is offering her, a kind courtesy of a great-aunt from her father’s side, and she grabs the matching purse before storming out of her room and down the corridor leading to the apartment door.

“Have a great party,” her dad says, tucking a rebellious strand of hair that slipped out from her slicked side parting back behind her ear. “And happy birthday to you.”

She hugs him tight – it’s the least she can do. “Thanks, dad. Have a great evening.”

She unlocks the door, ready to step out. The mental image of a yellow-white paper bag with the product of a whole day of book-hunting in Jinbocho inside it strikes her like thunder. The present!

She turns on her heels, only to find her dad already handing her the bag.

“You left this in the living room. The card says it’s for Kurusu-kun so I imagine you will need it?”

“Yes! Thank you!” She peeks inside to make sure for the millionth time that the rare photojournalism book she needed both Makoto’s and Haru’s help to secure is, indeed, where it is supposed to be.

“Better for him to have something on par for you.”

“Dad!”

“I know, I know. Come on, whoever came to pick you up has already waited more than what’s acceptable. Have a good night, and be safe.”

“Will do! Thank you again!”

She waves them goodnight and calls for the elevator. Alone again in the privacy and whirring silence of the cubicle, the adrenaline rush runs out, and a vicious weight settles back into her chest. She turns to look at herself in the mirror, where glassy eyes reveal the truth of what she’s desperately trying to bury, at least for tonight. She can’t even wipe that off.

She resists the urge to nib at her lower lip to avoid smothering the gloss and instead focuses on tidying the right side of her hairstyle, where strands are pushed back with her best and strongest hairspray yet baby hair keeps sprouting like mushrooms.

At the first bing of the doors, she strides outside with heels clattering on marble: Akechi’s grey car is parked in the same spot as last time, only its owner is waiting outside, leaning against the door on the driver’s side. His gaze is fixed on the entryway to her condo, and his body flows back into motion upon seeing her.

“I am so incredibly sorry!” she says, bowing as much as she can without upturning her hairdo. The front of the trench opens slightly, and a stab of chilly air seeps through to her cleavage.

Akechi just shrugs with nonchalance, even if his jaw stays clenched. “It couldn’t be helped, could it? Better late than never I’d say.”

Sumire presses her front teeth into her lower lip and curses herself for doing it. “Still… I’m sorry you had to wait this much.”

“I won’t claim it was pleasant but I am neither of the people being partied tonight, so don’t act like you’re personally offending me.” Eyes a darker shade than her own do a quick swipe of her figure, and he smiles with a hint of teeth. “Besides, judging from your attire alone I feel confident to say you’ll more than make up for the delay in Akira’s eyes.”

Flushing hard, she clenches the handle of the paper bag harder. Was that some twisted way of complimenting her?

“Thank you.”

“Come on. We have quite the distance to cover until Leblanc.”

Sumire rounds the front of the car and slips into the passenger’s seat. It’s way warmer inside, Akechi must’ve kept the heating running until not so long ago, and indeed he’s discarding the heavy coat on the backseat as he takes place at the steering wheel. He’s dressed in a honey-brown suit with golden buttons as accents, and the jacket is really tensed and really tight around his shoulders and waist, a perfect fit.

Leaning with her left elbow against the car window, Sumire steals a few other glances through the reflection offered by the darkness of the night outside.

“I think you’ll more than make up for the delay in Akira’s eyes, too.”

Akechi doesn’t crack, his expression does not even stutter, but the engine turning on with a hiccup does in his stead. Sumire keeps her lips pressed thin so that no smirk or sound comes out of her.

The ride through Tokyo is quiet, and the buildings progressively taller, then shorter again are the only detail giving away which area of the city they’re traversing. She would’ve bet a car commute with Goro Akechi plunged in silence to be a rather uncomfortable experience, yet she can appreciate the space or the lack of courtesy-imposed small talk. This, at least, gives her the appropriate time to mentally prepare for the assault of questions she will get once they enter Leblanc.

The café hardly ever looked more festive, with all the lights turned to their full brightness and a mixture of garlands and balloons hanging from the floor. The group is already there in its entirety, of course, and the moment Sumire steps in, she becomes the target of everyone’s eyes and curiosity.

It starts with Ryuji and his, “You managed to look this cool after an entire day of training?!” said with a gaping mouth and a sparkle of hurt in his eyes.

“I knew it!” Ann barges in, clapping her hands. “This dress suits you so well Sumi, was it a lot of trouble to wear?”

Her vision gets occupied by Yusuke’s fingers building a frame around her. “Truly marvelous… have you ever thought about that modeling request I mentioned at the start of the year?”

“Yusuke she’s a professional athlete,” Makoto sighs, dragging him away from her. “Speaking of, Sumi, how’s practice been going?”

Futaba also comes closer, nodding. “Yeah! Have you got some bangers to drop?”

“I’m not sure that is what those are called, Futaba-chan,” Haru giggles, but she also looks at her expectantly.

How does Akira do this every time?

Sumire stretches out her best smile, smoothing out wrinkles on her dress that aren’t there. In the corner of her eyes, Akechi is shifting his stance, ready to say something, but she doesn’t want his intervention. She handles journalists on a monthly basis, damn it.

“My mother helped me to get ready, I’ll admit,” she says, eyeing Ryuji. “She also lent me a hand to wear the dress because the zipper was giving me troubles… but thank you for the recommendation Ann, it’s… a lot different from what I usually wear. But in a good way, I think!”

Ann gives her a warm smile, and Sumire goes on with the next round of questions,

“And Yusuke… uhm, my apologies but I would feel a lot more confident if you used photos from my competitions as reference. Makoto is right, I don’t think I would do modeling any justice, to be honest!” she bows, and turns to her, Futaba, and Haru. She might not be used to lying through her teeth as well as Akira or Akechi, but she takes pride in herself for having gotten so much better at omitting key facts. “As for training, I dare say everything is proceeding. I have a lot of local events scheduled for the coming months but my next big meeting will be this Summer so I have plenty of time for the finishing touches!”

Everyone nods to her with various degrees of enthusiasm. Makoto offers her a hand to retrieve her trench while Futaba takes care of Akira’s present, adding it to a not-so-discreet pile stacked into the booth table closer to the door – and, speaking of which…

“Where’s Akira?”

Futaba shrugs, pointing to the attic. “Oh, he fled upstairs wit Mona as soon as he heard voices you two were coming.”

Frowning, Sumire turns to look at Akechi, who flashes her the smile of a devil. “Don’t look at me, I plead myself innocent.”

“But then how…?”

“I highly suggest you turn to look at the stairs, though.”

Sumire does.

As if coming out of thin air, Akira stands at the base of the staircase, dressed in a deep grey suit and with his hair properly styled for the first time since they met, with strands of his fringe meticulously puffed so that not a single hair covers his metal eyes. He looks like he’s come out of a fashion magazine, and she can’t help but wonder if Ann’s touches are to blame for the way her stomach is clenching and her face is heating up.

“Hey, Sumi. You look stunning.” Has his voice ever been this rich? Is she so flustered she’s exaggerating details?

Before she can voice a ‘you, too,’ or a ‘congratulations for graduating,’ or any other response, Akira steps aside and reveals a rather big squared packet with Morgana sitting on top that was half hidden behind his legs.

“Happy Birthday!” a chorus of voices chants for the second time today. Stunned, she staggers forward, where Akira meets her halfway while also pushing the packet (and Morgana) forward with the stark rustling of wheels spinning against the floor.

“Is my present inside a luggage?” she chuckles, hovering her fingers on the distinct shape of a handler on top.

“Why don’t you find out?”

The present isn’t inside the luggage: it is the luggage. The biggest luggage she ever saw at that, made of smooth black leather with golden accents and her name etched in scarlet red on the front. The zippers can be blocked in place by a security lock, and the handle on the side has a matching cover for personal information knotted around it; the front is transparent while the back has a rendition of her Violet mask pressed on the fabric.

Her eyes shoot up to gawk at Akira, and if she doesn’t cry it’s only by god’s hand. But Akira smiles with the knowing expression of someone who’s not done.

“It comes with a customized cover for your hoop, too. It’s folded inside.”

She’s coming short of air. “What… how…” She turns her gaze down and brushes her knuckles on the soft leather of the luggage with near reverence. “I don’t know what to say. It’s splendid.”

“Goro’s idea, really.”

She turns on her heels, looking at the other side of the café, where Akechi is standing aside from everyone else but surely enjoying the show. “You travel a lot,” he says, “so I proposed something that could be useful.”

“I do…”

She keeps mindlessly passing the pads of her fingers on the upper side of the luggage. It won’t even be three weeks since she has to depart again for the South where a regional meeting is coming up, not even two months before she will be flying outside of Japan again. She has no words to express how thankful she is for the chance to bring a piece of everyone with her, so she just grins and hopes she won’t end up crying as her eyes have threatened her to do all evening.

As for her… what is she leaving behind to stay with everyone while she’s gone? Do her performances count? They must count, and it’s not like she has anything else to offer – so she needs to make sure that every single throw, leap, and step of her new routines is nothing short of perfect.

She needs to make sure that her absence is worth it. That this isn’t for nothing.

Dragging her suitcase on the airport's external sidewalk, Sumire scratches the back of her neck and flaps away strands of hair that nested inside the collar of her Japan National Team t-shirt. The sweater is knotted by the sleeves around her waist and it’s already making sweat pool at the points of contact, with sacks of heat trapped by layers of tissue even where the sweater swings with her treading. To think her, as a Japanese from Tokyo, should be accustomed to that type of summer…

She stops near a portion of the wall where a sequence of plastic panels paints the corridor blue and the sign ‘Birmingham–Shuttlesworth International Airport’ stands out in shiny metal, so that she can undo the knot of her sweater to hang it around her arm instead. She tilts her neck up not to lose sight of where their local operator is leading them to the bus terminal, and crosses gazes with some of the other gymnasts, both colleagues and not. Some of them avert their eyes immediately, and some others try for a polite smile before keeping on with their walk.

“Is something about me off?” she murmurs to her Coach.

“Nothing’s off I’d say, although that luggage of yours sure is a sight to behold.”

Sumire squirms into her shoulders a bit. She won’t pretend this specific suitcase was maybe too big for this trip but she couldn’t wait to put everyone’s present to good use, even if it made her feel like she was 10 again.

“I don’t think it’s just that, though.”

Coach Hiraguchi shoots her a side glance, a curious look. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that you’re so eager to swipe an Olympic under the rug. You ran for the 2021 final, Sumire. Most of these girls are at their first big international gathering after turning Seniors. Of course they’re ogling you.”

Her spine shakes even more. It’s not like she won the Olympics or anything, she didn’t even access the final… but she supposes she would’ve done the same if she had such an occasion when she was younger. Some of them do look like they just turned 15, and they are already attending a competition in the USA, already playing in a whole other league than what they knew up until mere months ago.

Sumire wasn’t like this at 15. She was bitter, hurting, and mourning – even if she was made to forget it for nearly a year. She expressed the most stupid wish of her life by asking to be Kasumi instead of doing something more useful, for herself and everyone else, namely bringing her back. She was so desperate for what Kasumi had, she made a fool of herself, and it took her years – maybe it’s still taking her – to get back on her feet, and still, she couldn’t manage to enter the Olympic final last year.

These girls have what Kasumi had. She saw clips on YouTube, lurked on their social profiles; some of these girls are going to put Eastern Europe’s gymnasts under pressure for their podium pedestals. All the while, Sumire isn’t even sure she can dub herself a girl anymore. At 21, she’s a seasoned gymnast already. And she still wonders if she has what these girls have; what Kasumi had.

They reach the bus terminal, store their baggage, hop on the car, and head to the hotel. The World Games of 2022 will begin with Hoop and Ball on July 12^th, then Clubs and Ribbon on July 13^th, with both qualification and final on the same day; each competition will begin at 2 pm which means plenty of time during the morning to squeeze in some extra practice. Sumire will never say no to some extra practice.

Waking up at 7, she’s at the gym by 8 at the latest, already in her comfy leggings and sports bra. The annex gym to the arena is smaller than Aeon Club and relatively packed with athletes wanting to perfect their exhibitions in time for the competition, but not the heat, humidity, or pairs of extra eyes are a deterrent enough.

She executes her stretching routine and warm-up rounds, and picks up her Ribbon routine first.

“That again?” Coach Hiraguchi asks with the hint of a mock, but she hands Sumire a tiny mp3 player with a clip – a tech zombie, as Futaba would call it, straight from Sumire’s third-grade mementos, which still proves its usefulness when she can’t have a stereo and a gym at her disposal.

Sumire nods, silently. Her other routines are fine. This one? This can never be too perfect.

Her Coach throws her an inquisitive look but steps aside to make room for her to practice.

The old earplugs fit her ear a bit on the loose end, too small for the shape she’s grown into, and let background noise still seep through but they’re better than nothing. The sweet notes of a piano pick up and she opens her body into the usual front split pivot, and as her right foot raises above her head, she takes the ribbon’s handle from her toes and waves it in the air around herself. It always starts like this.

But starting is not the problem.

The music runs, beating to its own tempo, and Sumire can’t seem to keep up, not today. She misses the correct timing for the first big throw and the mismatch between movements and music rings so loud she screws the catch at the end of the risk, too.

Again.

She presses the rewind button and rewires her body into her initial position, wand of the ribbon between her toes and left leg crossed over her right, with arms hugging her body.

Come one Sumire, you won’t make it to the jumps if you keep up like this.

The piano plays again, she’s following it better now but she can tell by the ways her body swings that she’s being too stiff, she’s not holding any figure correctly.

Again. Rewind, rewire, and she starts all over. Once, twice, three times. Coach Hiraguchi’s eyes never leave her, silently noting the same mistakes she’s feeling in her tendons and sinews, and probably even more; the same mistakes the judges will note if she can’t get a hold of herself.

She makes it about halfway through one of the trials – she lost count after eight – before she has to stop again after dropping her ribbon during a spin. The wand lays on the fuzzy white mat, and the tail extends all tangled up beyond it like someone abandoned the apparatus with no care in the world. Her chest is tight and the waves are rising behind her eyes.

Coach Hiraguchi lowers to pick up the ribbon and pushes a bottle of water between her fingers.

“Here, drink something.”

Sumire nods but her hands are glued to the sweaty cold plastic. Her body refuses to move.

“One more time.”

“Uh?”

“Please, I want to repeat the routine one more time.”

Coach Hiraguchi’s hands cover hers, and only with that she realizes she’s quivering.

“Drink something first. Breathe. Calm down, and then we can go again.”

“What time is it?”

She does her best to kick her body into motion again, uncaps the bottle, and takes a few sips. Coach Hiraguchi checks her wristwatch, and her lips purse tight. Sumire lowers the bottle and glances at her expectantly, hoping to convey how much she wants the silence to break.

“Ten to eleven.”

Her head spins. No way so much time has passed, she hasn’t got much left, maybe one hour if she’s lucky.

“I have to keep going.”

Two hands grab her shoulders, rooting her on the spot. Coach Hiraguchi’s deep black eyes are scorching, magnetic as the very pull of gravity. And she’s not happy.

“Sumire Yoshizawa. Come outside of your own head. You’re in the practice arena, going over a routine we've seen dozens of times already. You have an Olympic on your resume and countless other world-class meetings. Don’t let your mind play tricks on you.”

Right, she has to focus. She can’t mess up now – there isn’t really anything for her to mess up, per se. She doesn’t have a qualification ahead of her, that won’t be until Sofia, until September.

She wets her lips and swallows down more water even if her very same body feels too tight, too oppressive, like forcing the sea through banks meant for the course of a river. She gives herself twenty seconds – she’s not allowed more. One, she breathes in. Holds it inside until four. Five, she breathes out. Rinse and repeat. Ten, she breathes out again. Fifteen, a rush of something washes over her, fighting against roaring anxiety, and it will have to be enough.

Twenty, her time is up.

She hands her half-emptied bottle to Coach Hiraguchi and retrieves her practice ribbon. She steps back, pushes the earplug back in, and resumes the final round of rehearsal.

The front split pivot goes by in a blur, she performs the small throw that comes after with no problems and rolls on the ground to catch the handle. The tail of the ribbons follows her and swirls through the air during her first Risk. She propels the ribbon higher and higher still; she makes sure it lands back between her fingers as she bends, spins, and trots around the practice area.

Everything is under control, even if her guts are contracting the more she dances closer to the sequence of turning split leaps.

Spinning on herself with little trots, she jumps and gives a push for the first rotation: her body is light and her arms are open wide as she bends her back so that her nape and calf are nearly touching meanwhile, with the corner of her eyes, she catches the movement of the ribbon’s tail to ensure no knots are forming. She lands her front foot, does a little turn on herself, and she’s back in the air for the second split leap of the series. She lands, turns, and jumps again for the third.

Her average is set at three. She will need four to score high enough in Sofia.

She goes for four.

Gritting her teeth through a smile, she transmits enough energy for a fourth turning split leap and her whole body is spinning – air never brushed her face, her sweaty bangs and baby hair, as it is doing now. Grinning, she lowers her front leg to prepare for the landing.

But her body is still completing the rotation.

Fuck.

Her foot touches the ground, bends on the side, and she topples on the practice mat. Something tears, someone screams, her Ribbon track is still running through the earplugs.

Grimacing, Sumire pushes the upper portion of her body off the floor with her elbows and tries to adjust the lower part, too, where suspicious throbbing is coming off from her right ankle.

“Sumire! Are you alright?” Coach Hiraguchi kneels by her side, eyes scanning through her body to assess the situation. Sumire waves her a hand.

“I need help to get up, something’s not right with my ankle.”

“Does it hurt?”

She gives it a nudge – it’s tense, and it sends a fit of pain up her nerves, but it’s nothing unbearable.

“Only a little,” she says. Hopefully, the medical staff has a constrictive bandage to give her so that she can keep the situation under control until after the competition when they’re back in Japan for more in-depth medical checks.

Coach Hiraguchi nods and cracks open the security sigil on a pack of instant ice. “That’s good to hear. Place this on the spot, I will call for medical support and a wheelchair so that you don’t have to put weight on it.”

Sumire does as she’s told. The contact with the gelid surface on her skin makes her hiss but if it helps to contain the damage, albeit as small as it might be, all the better. Around her, other gymnasts halted their training to glance at her, and she does her best to give them polite nods and smiles of acknowledgment. It’s nothing too tragic, don’t worry. She can’t have that right now. If the worst comes to it, she might have to give up on Hoop and Ball today, but this doesn’t mean she won’t see them tomorrow for Clubs and Ribbon.

Coach Hiraguchi is back and, by her side, there are two men: their assigned doctor, and another man in a white coat with hair of a blond nearly the color of his uniform, despite him being not much older than Hiraguchi herself. They all form a group around her: they brought more ice, a towel to keep everything in place, and a wheelchair.

Mr. Kumamoto – so it reads the card clipped on the front of his uniform – lowers near her ankle and delicately pushes the ice packet she was pressing aside.

“I am going to check your ankle to see if anything could sprained or broken, alright?”

Sumire nods, bracing for pain. Without the ice covering it, she can see swelling forming around the bone on the side, and if lights aren’t tricking her, a greenish-yellow patch is spreading through.

Mr. Kumamoto presses a bit higher than the spot with both his thumbs.

“Does it hurt if I press here?”

“No, not at all.”

“Alright. Here?” He moves down, towards the swelling. It stings but it’s more unpleasant than it is painful.

“No… it’s very tense but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Okay… here?”

There, Sumire hisses. It’s right next to the bruise that is forming. It must be an answer enough: Mr. Kumamoto gets up and offers her a hand.

“Here, let me help you. We need to perform an x-ray to assess the damage, as your ankle might be sprained.”

Cold sweat coats the back of her neck. With the pit of her stomach knotted, Sumire clasps the helping hand and raises to stand pushing only on her left foot. As they move the wheelchair behind her so that she can sit, she tries to nudge her right foot on the floor, just a bit, just to check with a tiny fraction of her weight. Again, tension, lots of it, but no pain.

Exhaling some of the compression in her chest, she lowers on the wheelchair and lets the medical staff handle the rest. As their Japanese professional fills in his American colleague, Coach Hiraguchi maneuvers her through the main corridor and outside of the arena, where a smaller bus reserved for less numerous delegations is parked.

By the time they reach the nearest hospital, the tension in her ankle mutates into a dull, throbbing pain. Her foot is covered in moisture by the ice inside the pack melting and as she readjusts the makeshift wrapping with the towel, she spots a darker shade of green nearing purple tainting her skin. She covers the area back up and shoots a glance at the clock hanging on a wall in the waiting area:  12.40. There is no way she’s making it for the first day of the Games, is she?

Mr. Kumamoto comes out from a double door, and the harsh neon lights cast sharp shades under his eyes that have no other reason to be there.

“The x-ray is ready. Coach, I have to ask that you wait outside.”

“Of course,” she nods. “I will take this time to make a phone call. Please take care of her. Sumire, I will see you in a bit.”

Sumire waves her goodbye before a nurse takes control of her wheelchair and moves her to the x-ray room, where a third medic who’s not Mr. Kumamoto nor his American colleague is waiting.

“Hello,” she says in English, to which Sumire just smiles back. Her eyes are beginning to burn and in her mind the muted whirring of machinery clashes like a storm. She grips the arm of the chair to stand up, mindlessly moving her right foot for leverage, and a spark of pain travels up from her ankle, making her whine. The doctor hastens to hold her, speaking something, but Sumire is so focused not to let pain completely override her that she can’t even begin to make out what she’s saying.

“Mrs. Garner is going to perform the exam,” Mr. Kumamoto intervenes to explain. “But before that, the nurse will have to apply the protective devices and set you up in the correct position… that will hurt a bit.”

Biting her lower lip, Sumire nods. Anything, if it means they will be done with this as soon as possible.

Helped by the nurse, she hops on the exam table, where she has to bend her knee so that the injured foot can stay flat against the surface. The nurse is saying something to her, from which she only understands ‘sorry’ before her nerve endings get stabbed with pain.

She recoils, keeping any protests sealed through clenched teeth. The nurse’s hands on her ankle are delicate by touch but every movement she’s forced to make in order to place her limb correctly is nothing but ache drilling inside her flesh, her bone.

“We’re almost there,” Mr. Kumamoto reassures her, brushing her forearm. “Now we are all going to exit to perform the scan. It won’t be long, just a couple of minutes, alright?”

“Yes… thank you.”

She closes her eyes and reclines her head against the exam table as much as she can without moving her body from the correct position. A switch gets clicked, and almost all the light disappears from behind her eyelids – only something vaguely red remains, something that, with her eyes closed, could almost resemble the hues of Mementos, all those years ago. Something else buzzes to life, the x-ray machine probably. Breathing through her nostrils, she does the only thing she can: wait.

When all noise disappears and brightness comes back seeping through her lids, she opens her eyes to the nurse dismantling the protections. She’s helped back on the wheeling chair and drove away from the table, into a more shielded waiting area that connects with the outside through another set of double doors. There, the nurse exits, probably headed to call her Coach back, while Mr. Kumamoto, his colleague, and two other doctors enter past the divider with different film sheets in hand. The female doctor hangs them against a backlight so that Sumire’s bones can come out.

The doors open, and Coach Hiraguchi walks by her side. They all eye Mr. Kumamoto, who clears his voice before speaking.

“I am sorry to say… the bone is broken. You’ve been lucky, it’s a clear fracture, very tidy, so it won’t take any measures outside the ordinary procedure to heal, but you must take care of it.”

Sumire’s mouth is dry. She’s not sure she could speak even if she had something to say.

“How long?” Coach Hiraguchi inquires.

“45 days of plaster cast, plus 30 more days of complete rest. Once the bone has healed, she will have to go through a bit of physical rehabilitation before training again – and even after that, we suggest that she uses a tight support bandage to prevent any… excessive movement in the future.”

People around her are moving, are speaking. But to Sumire, the world is frozen. The moment of her fall keeps replaying before her eyes, like a defective cassette stuck in the reader, and not unlikely from what happened shortly after Kasumi’s incident. That time, she had another person there to protect her, to give her a second chance.

This is how her second chance ends up. She dared to fly too high and took the fall.

No more World Games. No more Sofia. The qualification process for Paris 2024 is set to start in September and she won’t be there for it.

The nurse accompanies her to another, smaller studio, where one of the doctors is setting the tools up to wrap her ankle in plaster. She stands up, hops on the bed, distends on the clean paper blanket. Things flow outside of her but she’s empty, has been hollowed out with a spoon.

It could be worse – it can always be. No few gymnasts in the past had back and neck injuries that blocked their careers for good. A broken ankle doesn’t sound as terrible. But she is 21, with one failed Olympic already on her back, and it’s extraordinary in itself that she is going for the second instead of retiring like many others would’ve done already. It’s just that…

Deep inside, gurgling like the magma that forebodes the earthquake, one single thought is shaking her:

Is this really what I end up with, at the end of the day?

Chapter Text

Someone knocks on the door.

Sumire grunts under her breath, turning her body as much as the plaster cast will allow her, and squashes her cheek into the pillow – her pillow, the pillow in her bed, smelling like her. If she presses herself into the mattress enough, she will eventually disappear, she is sure.

Another round of knocking.

“Sumire?” her mother calls, worry tainting her voice.

She swallows down every resistance and forces her throat to work. “Yes?”

“Your friends are about to visit. Can I come in? I can help you shower and change the bed.”

Suddenly, her skin feels sticky and her hair too pressed against her scalp, too tangled up. With shame setting her body on fire, she exhales into the cotton.

“I can shower alone, don’t worry. Coming.”

She sits up and throws the left leg off the bed first to get leverage and reach for the crutches. Leaning on one, she raises her right leg too and cautiously leaves the foot hanging mid-air; one quick stab of pain ambushes her nonetheless, so she resolves to concede to another dose of painkillers. Gritting her teeth, she slips the upper part of the crutches under her armpits and clenches the handles so that she can get up – sturdy plastic presses against the bones of her thumbs, where the skin is already swelling with red marks.

She limps towards the door, which opens from the other side: her mother stands there with a pile of clean laundry in her arms and a gentle smile. Without saying a word, she scoots on the side to let her pass.

“Thanks, mom,” Sumire mutters and continues her rather slow journey to the bathroom. She doesn’t know if her skin crawls for the actual watchful eyes of her mother, the sole thought of them, or the fact that Sumire hasn’t had a shower ever since coming back from the US.

At least when Kasumi died, she had only stopped eating.

And even that didn’t last long, did it?

She wonders what would Dr. Maruki say, seeing her now. Akira told her that the Doctor forsook his research entirely after the Change of Heart, although he never specified what Maruki was doing or how he acquired this information. Either way, injuries come with the profession, especially if one acts as careless as she has. It won’t jeopardize her entire career if she’s lucky. And if she isn’t…

Not now. Right now, she has to make herself presentable again. That is a thought for later.

She sits on the stool and removes her shorts and tank top, throwing them into the laundry basket. Stretching her leg as far as she can so that the plaster doesn’t catch any water drops, she juts her head back and starts washing her hair. Despite the summer, she keeps her water scorching – Ann would argue that isn’t good for the hair fiber but she hardly cares at the moment. They’re bound to be constricted into a tight bun for most of her days, anyway. Water slides down the upper portion of her body, and her muscles begin to relax, even if her soul is still as tense as a tightrope.

When she’s done, she swallows a pill from her prescribed box then brushes and blows herself dry, and picks up a change of clothes that is at least a little less like a pajama. It’s not like there is much else she can wear with one-third of her right leg constricted into plaster.

The sight of her bed, freshly tidied, is like a mirage in a desert. She hastily leaves the crutches on the side and hops back on the mattress, full of the scent of fresh soap and vanilla softener. The doorbell rings, and with a sting of guilt and sore exhaustion, she wonders if she absolutely has to do this.

But the others offered to visit so adamantly and with such short notice… it would be bad to refuse now, wouldn’t it?

A certain level of commotion comes from the other side of the house, moving through the corridor and seeping into her room. Overwhelmed as she already is, her only hope is that the entire group won’t try to fit into her one single bedroom.

And they don’t, thankfully – the first pair to enter is Ann and Ryuji, a set of heads peeking into the room first, one with blond curls styled into two messy buns and another with mostly outgrown dark roots and only specks of yellow here and there. Their expressions are beyond warm, verging on enthusiastic, and Sumire does her back to shove any unpleasant feeling away and waves a hand to them, offering a polite smile.

“Hey, you two. Thank you for visiting.”

Ann shakes her head and comes in, drawing a bouquet of pink flowers from behind her back.

“Don’t even mention it! There was no way we could leave you by yourself.”

“Yeah, man,” Ryuji adds, “been there, it sucks a lot. So we wanted to offer some support, yanno?” He also comes forward, offering her a squared but flat box sealed in a thin wrapping.

Gifts?!

Blinking, Sumire accepts both and carefully places them on her lap. She recognizes the pastry’s brand as the same one as her birthday cake’s, and the flowers bear the tag of Rafflesia, potentially meaning some type of Akira involvement in the composition. They smell sweet but it’s a delicate scent, somewhat hugging; the exact type of comfort she realizes she’s deeply craving. There definitely has been some form of Akira involvement.

“Thank you so much… it means more than words can express right now. You really didn’t have to do this.”

Ann clicks her tongue, gesturing ‘no’ with her index. “Nuh-uh, we won’t have any of that. It’s the least we could do. How’re you feeling?”

She sighs. No use in sweetening the pill, right?

“Sore, but the painkillers are helping a lot. I’m tired and my head feels heavy most of the time. It’s hard to live through the fact I can’t even shower properly, and this is only when I… when I don’t think about…”

The corners of her eyes sting with the next thought cutting her breath away. Damn, to think she even swore to herself to be agreeable about this.

Ryuji clears his voice, despite not looking straight at her. His face seems to verge a shade more into pink.

“Don’t beat yourself too much, all right? I am no expert of course, but if my injury still allows me to run at pretty much national level, I wanna be positive you’ll recover just fine. I know it’s hard to see it now but nothing’s been decided already… you get what I’m tryin’ to say?”

‘Don’t go into this competition thinking you’ve already lost.’

Coach Hiraguchi’s words from years back come to her aid once again. Despite herself, she smiles.

“I think I do.”

“Good.”

“Say then, Sumi,” Ann butts in, “if the recovery goes well… what are your plans?”

It takes less than she’d like to admit to answer.

“I would still want to take part in the Paris 2024 Olympics. It’s probably the reason why I’m so worried about all this mess… I don’t want to run away anymore. And I would hate it if one mistake forced me to step back. So, if the doctors agree and rehabilitation goes swiftly, my dream remains the same.”

“That’s great. And I’ll always be there, waiting for you in Paris to show you around and take you to all the hottest spots, okay?”

Ann’s expression is as bright as the sun, and all Sumire can do is be pulled in by her optimism. She smiles back.

“I will make sure to contact you.”

Another round of knocking comes from the door. Ryuji scrolls his shoulders, stepping back.

“Looks like our time’s up, uh. You’ve got a real crowd waiting for you out there, Sumi.”

Her cheeks heat up, and she passes a hand over her face to at least try to conceal the wince.

“Please don’t exaggerate things…”

“No, but it’s true!”

“Ryuji…” Ann groans, then, between her teeth, she adds, “don’t put her under the spotlight too much. She has enough of it already.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez…” he turns back to Sumi and waves her goodbye. “We’ll make space for the next round. Ask if you need anything, ‘mkay?” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants and jolts, rummaging his fingers around something. “Shit! I almost forgot.”

What Ryuji draws out of his pocket is a set of tiny colored markers lined inside a plastic bag. He picks a yellow one and approaches her bed once more.

“I was hoping someone would offer to do it for me with my injury… but then no one would, so: do we get to sign your plaster?”

“Oh!”

That is certainly something she wasn’t expecting. Just like the gifts. Adjusting her stance, she sits a tad more properly on the bed so that the bulked-up leg is closer to the border for ease of access. Still flushing from the thought, she clears her voice.

“Y-yes, by all means. Go on.”

“Amazing! Thanks.”

As he hunches over to write his name on the plaster, Sumire can’t help but giggle a bit. He seems happier with this than I am. As he’s done, he offers the marker to Ann, who shoots him a tiny pout. “Yellow? Really? Don’t you have like, a pink one over there?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks.”

Ann, too, leans against the mattress to sign her name on the plaster, and she even adds a little scribble on the side.

“Is that supposed to be a heart?” Ryuji asks with a critical look.

“It’s a rose, silly!”

“Maybe she’ll have more luck with Yusuke.”

“Hey!”

“Thank you both, really,” Sumire says to interrupt the bantering. She adds a small bow and completes the salute with another smile.

Ryuji meets her with a thumb-up. “It’s no problem! Shoot a message in the chat and the Phantom Thieves shall answer.”

Ann elbows him. “Maybe don’t shout it when her parents are hanging out in the next room, yeah?”

“Really, Ryuji?” Futaba’s voice kicks in as she opens the door. “Still going at it after all these years?”

From the spot in her arms, hugging him, Morgana sighs. “Bad habits are hard to beat, I guess.”

The accused sticks his tongue out. “Can it, cat.”

“Ugh…”

“This isn’t about you two,” Yusuke reprimands, stepping in beside her. “Please leave poor Sumire alone.”

“Yeah, please be mature about this,” Ann adds, glowering at both Ryuji and Morgana.

“I think,” Sumire says in a half-certain voice, “that Ryuji’s thought was nice.”

He beams at her and squares his shoulders with pride, as Morgana mutters something about Ryuji’s idea being nice, indeed. She simply smiles back, waving both the blondie and the former blondie goodbye. Group bits are always weird to handle – although all the liveliness is probably good for her spirits.

As the door closes once again, both Futaba and Yusuke come forward, and Morgana hops from Futaba’s arms onto her mattress. Before any of them can speak, Sumire goes first.

“I am well now, you don’t have to worry. It’s tough, but I can do this.”

“We’re all happy to hear,” Yusuke says. “Is the outcome of your recovery looking good?”

“It’s still too early to tell. But it was a simple fracture, so the bone should heal with no problems according to the medical staff.”

Both him and Futaba nod, and Morgana climbs a bit further on the bed to scent the flowers.

“How long will everything take?”

Sumire presses her lips closer together, doing her best to hide the discomfort. “45 days of plaster cast and another month of complete rest right after. Then, I will have to go through physical rehabilitation.”

“Good thing we came equipped then!” Futaba says as she raises a gift paper bag from the floor which, if her movements are of any indication, must weigh quite a bit. “We had to scourge the lands of Akiba for this one, but the bounty is totally worth it.” She lays it on the desk chair that’s been brought near the bed as an impromptu nightstand for both water and medicines. With bright eyes, she glances at her, expectant.

Sumire stretches to remove the colorful washi tape keeping the bag closed: inside of it, two piles of tankobon are neatly arranged, with front and back swapped alternately to avoid the paper from bending. On the two topmost-facing covers, one blond girl with iconic 80s-style eyes is depicted while executing rhythmic gymnastics elements. She picks the first volume up and turns it between her hands with a fond smile. The pages on the side are yellowed by time, but everything seems to be in an exceptionally good condition.

“I remember this one! My grandma had VHS recordings of some of the episodes that aired when my mom was young. Me and Kasumi used to watch them all the time as kids when we went to visit her.” She places the thin book back on top of the stack and turns to her guests to bow. “Thank you. I will make sure to read this during my recovery. Despite seeing sparse episodes, to this day I have no idea how the story ends.”

“And now you will!” Futaba adds with a grin. Her expression turns serious as she extends her palm to Yusuke. “Inari, hand me the tool.”

“The tool…?”

“The marker, the marker! The great Oracle shall leave a trace of her passage.” She snatches a green one from the bag and hovers over the plaster with a devilish chuckle.

Sumire tries to spy what she’s doing but Morgana hops in her direction with his whiskers vibrating.

“Hey, I want to sign it too!”

“But you don’t have hands, kitty.”

“I’ll use my mouth to hold the marker, then.”

“The result would be tremendous,” Yusuke laments with a sigh. “Here, put your paw on the plaster. I shall trace the shape of it.”

When they’re all done, besides Ryuji’s name and Ann’s rose-shaped entanglement of lines, stand out a paw complete with filling and texture, a green kaomoji smirk with a series of ones and zeroes – binary code? – under it, and the elegant blue strokes of Yusuke’s signature. Sumire twists her leg as best as she can to admire the updates better, and her heart throbs stronger in her chest.

“You’re all very sweet. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

Futaba gives her a light poke on the arm with the capped end of the marker. “Yeah, this was nothing. Got it? Just say the word and we’ll do whatever we can to help.”

“Also,” Yusuke adds, “if you ever find yourself to be in a swamp, and lack the inspiration to go forward, don’t hesitate to contact me. Beauty is tough to achieve and the world is indeed a complex subject of study – but through the constant exchange with others, you get to observe life with different eyes. Akira taught me that much, and it’s something I still cherish.”

Sumire nods. She had her fair share of relying on Akira already… she wonders if it’s okay to accept the invitations everyone’s extending to her. Even if she’s not really part of the group the same way that everyone else is.

“Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”

From his sweet spot on the mattress, Morgana raises to stretch and hops back into Futaba’s arms.

“Our time’s probably up. But we can and will come back if you need anything, roger that?”

“Yes! Thank you again for stopping by.”

They wave their hands – and paws – back and make space for Makoto and Haru to come through the door.

“Thank you, too, for stopping by,” Sumire says. The time passed both too quickly and too slowly, and tiredness is beginning to present its symptoms.

Makoto is the first one to get close, armed with a subtle but kind smile. “It’s no problem. What are friends for if not supporting you through tough times, after all?” She hands her an envelope made of pearl-white paper. “This is a little something we got. We thought about an activity you could do once your ankle has healed…” She throws a quick side glance at Haru, and her voice warms up. “Actually, it was Haru’s idea.”

“Please, Mako-chan, you too deserve the credit. Your research of the best facility was quite thorough…”

Sumire flips the envelope, no bigger than a birthday card, between her fingers. She breaks the sigil keeping the wrapping in place and draws out what appears to be a very fancy coupon for a whole day treatment in some spa in the countryside. A shiver runs down her spine, and her eyes jolt up to search Haru and Makoto’s faces.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course we are!” Haru beams. “You work so hard Sumi-chan, you deserve a break, especially after this whole incident.”

“I don’t know what to say…”

Makoto giggles. “We can tell by your expression. Would you mind us signing your plaster as well?”

“By all means! There should still be some markers left, I think.”

“Mako-chan, look! The light blue one is rather nice, isn’t it?”

Makoto nods, humming lowly, and picks the designated marker from the plastic case – by the dorky smirk she wears, it’s almost as if she’s doing it more to make Haru happier than out of a stark preference of hers.

“How are you doing, Sumi?” she asks while carefully writing her name in bumpy strokes on the plaster. “Not only physically, I mean.”

Sumire does her best to fend off the tension in her shoulders. She doubts she’s successful. Resigned, she exhales a heavy breath.

“I’m holding it together, but it’s rough. I can’t stop thinking this whole situation is my fault, due to how badly I handled my training. I should be a seasoned gymnast by now, yet I was unable to keep my anxiety under control once again… so much, in fact, that I took refuge into practicing to the point of exhaustion.” She enlaces her fingers together in her lap, boring holes in the thin cotton bedsheet covering the non-plastered leg. “And in less than two months, the World Championships will take place in Sofia – it’s the first competition to offer qualification spots for the Paris 2024 Olympics, you know. And I won’t be able to attend due to my mistake and my lack of maturity.”

The cap of Makoto’s marker closes with a loud click as she finishes signing; she offers it to Haru, who shakes her head and picks a fuchsia one instead. Makoto turns to look at Sumire, and her smile is genuine, even though the tone of her voice is firm.

“Don’t beat yourself too hard, Sumi. I know you have quite a curriculum behind your back already… still, as someone older than you, I see my younger self in you a lot. We all make mistakes.” Her lips become a thin line, and she holds her breath before speaking again. “I don’t know if or how much Akira told you about this, but when we were still students, I realized I wanted to uphold my father’s legacy of making the world a better place and decided to become a police commissioner. Once I graduated from Law School though, things turned out to be a bit different. I was quite a different person, myself. So I opted out of my own decision to pursue a teaching career… I can’t say it wasn’t disappointing towards myself, to see me so behind my peers. Even sis got a bit worried. But I already feel it was the correct choice for me and the person I’ve become. So, in the end, what I mean is—”

‘Don’t let this one mistake define your entire performance,’ Sumire mutters, Coach Hiraguchi’s words echoing in her head once again. Makoto blinks, slightly taken aback, but she smiles back with kindness.

“Yes, exactly.”

“I appreciate that a lot… Senpai.”

“Ah,” she chuckles, “here you go again.”

“We’re all doing whatever we can to pursue our dreams,” Haru adds, “there are setbacks, and some might be more troublesome than others, but we wouldn’t be here today if we hadn’t accepted that that is how life is, right?”

Sumire nods with conviction. “You’re right. I won’t forget it.”

“Good! Then I believe we’re done, at least for today. We leave you to your rest now, okay?”

“Thank you for visiting in the first place. I appreciate everyone taking the time to come by.” She clenches the hold of her fingers on one another, strangling bones. “It makes me even more determined to give it my all and not let anyone down!”

Both Makoto and Haru wave their goodbyes and exit from the door. Relieved to finally be alone, Sumire reclines her head back, allowing her body to slip further down the bed as much as the plaster will allow. Her temples thrum with the release after the concentrated effort, and her body must be processing the majority of the painkillers as her head is fuzzy and her ears cottoned.

She slips her eyes closed, rest finally, finally in sight.

But the door’s hinges clack again, and she scrambles to sit in a more appropriate manner.

It’s Akechi. He’s cracked the door open enough to only show his face.

“May I come in?”

Sighing, Sumire nods and relaxes her body once more.

“Are you here on Akira’s behalf? Where is he?”

“Talking with your parents as of now. They quite literally abducted him before he could exit the kitchen. No, I’m here on my own accord. I don’t see you answering any more questions about your physical or mental state, however.”

“You might be right,” she confesses through gritted teeth. “They’ve all been so nice to me… I feel slightly ungrateful, but my head is back to feeling as if it’s been in a blender.”

“That is understandable. Are you under the effects of some medicine?”

“Painkillers. But they’re beginning to wear off.”

Her eyes are dry, and they burn, and despite herself, she closes them once again. There’s the telling shuffling of socks on the floor, and the cracking of paper being moved around.

“They’ve been nice indeed…” Akechi muses, which is how Sumire knows he’s checking out the presents.

“Are they usually not?” she says, lighthearted and not really meaning anything by it.

“Ah. I may be the wrong person to give perspective on that matter.”

If group bits were too much to handle for her, whatever Akechi and the group have going on between them is even more out of her capabilities at the moment. Readjusting her body to sit straighter, she at least makes the effort of looking at him – he’s not smiling and not sulking. He’s just showing his face.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to poke at a sore spot.”

He shrugs. “It isn’t, not for me at least. Some things simply cannot be mended, no matter how good the intentions are… Akira is starting to realize it, too. With some it’s easier, with some it will never cease to be difficult, I fear. But even if the current situation should last forever, it would be more than what I deserved from their end. So, I won’t be the one to complain. I certainly cannot expect them to offer the same sympathy to me as they do to you.”

Despite none of us having been part of the group, he doesn’t say. Sumire holds her gifted bouquet tighter, even if the plastic wrap cracking makes her self-aware.

“Do you resent me?”

His expression fractures, with a thin frown forming on his forehead. “No, why would I?”

“I think that, despite everything, we all worked well to defeat Dr. Maruki. Everyone’s contribution was essential… it does feel a bit strange you’re still given the cold shoulder after all these years, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all. I had my reasons for doing what I did, and now they have their reasons to resent me. Specifically, I know for sure some of them aren't… enthusiastic about the fact I am not rotting in jail as we speak. Not that it would be undeserved, at least according to the law. Only, if you ask me, what I am actively doing by working under Shirogane is way more helpful to society and to right my mistakes than spending my days locked in a cell. But I understand not everyone would see it this way.”

“It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“And for some reason, you don’t seem to mind. I always wondered why that was the case.”

Blinking, she points a finger towards her face. “Me?”

Akechi nods. “Yes. I had my own conversations with Akira about this, and he’s… he has reasons not to be as bothered by all our history as he should be. But you don’t, clearly.”

“Clearly,” she repeats, mocking him. She readjusts on the bed again, if anything to dissipate some of the tension away. “The core of it, I believe, is that I was never part of the Phantom Thieves, much like you. I’ve always felt like some sort of… late addition to the group, and the feeling kept itself vivid throughout the years. Not that I did anything special to change the situation! Just… gymnastics required a lot of my attention. I appreciate everyone’s attempts to include me and care for me, but I know it’s just not the same. So, accounting for this, is it wrong that I am somewhat neutral towards you?” She lowers her gaze, face burning up. “You looked out for me a lot when we fought together, and you were probably the only person besides Akira not to extend any pity towards my situation. I appreciate that more than words can express.”

His shoulders wince a bit, and before speaking again, he clears his voice of any embarrassment. “To be completely honest with you, Yoshizawa, I simply did not care. I did what I had to in order to ensure our restricted team could be efficient when we explored Maruki’s Palace, nothing more and nothing less.”

“But you do now, don’t you?” She offers him a conciliating smile. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here on your accord.”

“... you’ve become quite observant,” he concedes, and Sumire grins in victory.

“Learned from the best.”

“I am only going to say, you’re a way less sorry sight to witness since breaking free from Maruki’s influence. You’ve grown a spine, and that is something I can always appreciate.”

“Why, thank you.”

She lets herself sink into the mattress again. Painkillers are definitely wearing out, the tension in her ankle is building up and that will lead to ache soon enough.

“I appreciate the honesty. And the fact you took time to come see me.”

“I’ll leave you to rest now. Do you want me to call Akira?”

She nods. “Please.”

There’s something she needs to ask him. She hasn’t visited Kasumi’s tomb since last summer, after the 2021 Summer Olympics debacle. Another visit is long overdue.

Air is heavy despite being mid-September, but luckily the sky verges on gray enough that the sun and what remains of Summer aren’t scorching on her skin. Still, the tightness around her ankle, half-sock and half-bandages, itches like hell.

Sumire ignores the feeling and stumbles forward, dragging her right foot more than she would like, but it’s a miracle already she can walk without crutches. It would be best to still use them, and she does most of the time. Not today, though. Today, her hands are full of flowers, and she stretches her neck to see past them and down the path of the Aoyama Cemetery. Kasumi’s grave is right where she left it, near the sakura tree that has grown even bulkier since her last visit.

“Do you need a hand?” Akira says as they approach the tomb and Sumire slows down.

She shakes her head. “I’m good, thank you. I won’t put pressure on my ankle, I promise.”

Nonetheless, he opens his arms to hold the flower bouquet in her stead, and Akechi offers his arm for her to hold while she kneels on her good leg. She accepts, huffing and with a subtle eye roll.

Her parents must have visited recently, because the stone is clear of any moss or dirt, and the flowers that already occupy the vase are looking wrinkly and mushy but they’re still far from rotting. She removes them, anyway, and spills the old water onto the surrounding grass. Turning, she takes out a plastic bottle from her bag and pours fresh water into the clear glass. Akira hands her the new bouquet and she arranges it as best as she can without messing up the composition too much.

Kasumi’s name and the day of her birth and death stare back at her.

It’s never easy, and she doubts it will ever be. One day will come when she will have spent more of her life without Kasumi than with her, she walks towards that day one step closer each morning and that is a rather bitter fact to reconcile with – as is the dresser full of leotards that don’t fit Sumire anymore, but used to fit Kasumi, or the fact Hiraguchi is still able to spot bits of Kasumi into her performances. They will never meet again, there won’t be any Kasumi Yoshizawa ever again, and yet it can’t be like she never existed, either. There will always be a spot for her inside Sumire’s heart, a Kasumi-shaped chasm.

Sniffing softly, she swallows down the tears.

“I miss you dearly,” she whispers. “Some days I ask myself how I can even get up without you, yet every day I do that regardless. I want to achieve what we set off to. The doctors are positive that the fracture won’t impact me too badly on my career, given that I take proper care of my ankle and follow through with rehabilitation. I nearly sabotaged our dream and it’s difficult forgiving myself for that.” She opens her bag again and checks into the side pocket designed to carry valuables: she takes out an old picture of her and Kasumi at the gym, both dressed in bright leotards and both missing a few front teeth. They scored so well in that competition that their parents went on and purchased a whole ice cream cake for them to eat. “When I’m tempted to miss the old days when we ate ice cream after a successful recital, I remind myself that few things were truly simple, even back then, and that I am more free now than I ever was as a child. The truth is that what I miss the most is you. It will always be you.”

The knot inside her chest is too tight. She bends her head down and grits her teeth, but tears get the best of her.

“Despite everything, I only wish to go back to tell fifteen-year-old me how stupid she was acting. It must be positive, right? Maybe I have indeed grown.”

She brushes her eyes and cheeks dry and retrieves one tissue from her bag to silently blow her nose. When she feels she’s collected enough of herself, she stretches her hand to grab Akechi’s arm and stand up again. Her eyes bounce between him and Akira, and she does her best to offer them a reassuring smile.

“If you’re free for the rest of the afternoon, there is actually something else I would like to do today.”

Akira studies her, and meets her with a smirk. “Scheming face. What are you up to?”

Sumire pulls out her phone and checks between her bookmarked websites for one specific salon both Haru and Ann recommended to her.

“I think it’s time for a haircut.”

“Sumire, oh my god, you’ve cut your hair!”

“You look wonderful!”

“The hairstyle really suits you, I’m almost envious!”

The chorus of cheerings from her Aeon Club colleagues fades out, even without fully dying down, and Sumire smiles teeth and eyes to the group.

“Thank you, everyone!”

Coach Hiraguchi coughs to clear her voice and gathers the attention back. “Don’t spoil her too much, all right? She’s still recovering after all, and there is a lot of rehabilitation yet to do.”

“Yes, ma’am!” The girls reply together before scattering throughout the gym to get started on their daily practice with their own trainers. Coach Hiraguchi nods approvingly and turns her eyes back to Sumire.

“How are you feeling?”

She grins, sharply. “Like a new me.”

“Is that why the haircut? They’re right, though. Just barely past the shoulders, uh? It suits you.” She lays a hand on her arm, gripping it gently. “The coming weeks are set up to be tough. You have a bunch of physical therapy to look forward to, and then we’ll slowly resume your routines. Are you fired up?”

Sumire nods with pride.

“I can’t wait to be back to training. I will be in Paris in two years, I am sure of it.”

Chapter Text

2023 isn’t easy.

Not when she has whole routines to rebalance around a healing ankle, and said ankle stings a bit too much for her liking whenever she lands a jump anything less than perfectly; not when doctors banned her from worldwide competitions before they can be sure there won’t be any setbacks, and she’s left to focus on smaller-scale meetings – if nation- and continent-wide gatherings can be dubbed as such. It’s not an easy year because whenever someone asks for her age, she’s led by habit to say 19 even if she hasn’t been 19 in three years and can’t help but wonder if the sense of void left by the pandemic will ever abandon her, or if the ticking of an imaginary clock inside her head will ever go mute. She can submerge it with cotton, she can quell the anxiety for a while, but the hands are restless, and so is her.

2023 isn’t easy. She learned her lessons, however; she takes hardships in strides but without the reckless abandon that would cause another crash against a wall, and other bones to break. She’s filled to the brim with energies that still lack an outlet, and she knows better than to channel them the wrong way.

Until today.

Her hair is slicked back, the updo pulling at her scalp, and the August sun of the Mediterranean is scorching against her face as she adjusts both her gym bag and hoop case on her shoulder, Coach Hiraguchi by her side. In front of her, one imposing rectangle of steel grids, with a glass bubble nestled in the middle. Sunrays reflect on the fragmented surface, making it so there is no position she can assume without light catching her eyes.

Valencia.

14 qualification spots for individual Seniors for the 2024 Olympic Games in Paris. One will be hers.

Coach Hiraguchi squeezes her free shoulder, getting started on their little ritual.

“So, here we are.”

“Here we are,” she echoes.

“Nervous?”

She chuckles. “Isn’t that a given?”

“Ah, the humor. Must be a good sign. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she says and believes it fully. “Let’s go.”

Pressing her lips together, she smacks them one last time and tilts her head left and right to make sure no lipstick has gotten smudged in the process. Leaning away from the mirror, she twirls on herself and admires the sea of dark blue beads covering her chest, ending in a short, skirt-like fabric. The leotard is littered with silver glitters, making it shine with her every breath like the waves glinting under the midday sky.

Smiling to herself, she secures the slippers on her toes and grabs the turquoise ball she paired with the outfit. Goosebumps surprise her outside of the changing rooms – whether caused by the thrill of an upcoming exhibition or by the fact she’s wearing a rare sleeveless leotard she can’t say for sure. Holding her chin up she walks through the corridor that leads to the main arena, waiting for someone from the staff to signal her she can head to the stage.

Once her name gets officially announced, she strides towards the center of the floor, chest tight and shoulders squared. She breathes deeply and keeps the air in as she stills into her starting position, on her tiptoes and with her arms crossed up and behind her head, cupping the ball. She scolds her expression, doing her best not to squint under the lights that will offer her dance to the audience.

It's nice to be back.

One loud whistle signals the beginning of her exhibition.

It starts with a piano, as is often the case with her tracks. She imagined this routine as the epitome of what she does best, and with Coach Hiraguchi, they designed it to be what Akira dubbed “A Classic Sumire Routine.” It’s what the audience expects, what the JGA advised, and Sumire wants to make sure she delivers.

Pushing her leg up in a split pivot, she throws the ball, advances with an elegant dance step under it and, slowly lowering on the floor, pushes her elbows back to welcome the apparatus once it lands. She rolls in time with the music, each spread of her arms and arch of her back following the flow of the delicate notes of piano and violin. They’re gentle, and so is she.

Raising to stand again, she twists on herself and shoots the ball in the air for the first Risk. The violin picks up and she completes three perfect rotations before diving on the ground and catching the ball back between her knees. Her heart is already drumming in her chest, a forecast of the percussion that will appear in the latter half of her performance.

But that is for later.

Reigning her mind back at this moment, she steels her muscles in a balance and follows that with a series of apparatus difficulties centered on rotations and a continuous shift of axis. ‘Think about the sea,’ Coach Hiraguchi said during training, ‘Picture yourself as the water swirling freely.’ That’s how they came up with the idea of her leotard, too.

She braces for the second Risk: she bends forward for a one-hand walkover and with her free palm, the one not pushing against the ground to sustain her weight, she pushes the ball up once again; that same hand she keeps it stretched up as she turns on herself and bends back for the second walkover.

One, two, three.

The ball is back in her palm, and she follows with a direct re-throw under her leg. She smiles when the ball bounces exactly where it’s meant to – it took a lot to master this bit. She lets it roll on the ground and follows the trajectory with more elements, picks it up, and wraps up this other bit with a pivot.

The music begins to quicken. Time for her favorite part.

As insistent percussions enter the track, she inserts more dance moves and steps in between gymnastics elements: each cartwheel has its little elbow push, and each throw an additional wave of her arms. By the original design, this would be the time for her to introduce jumps into her Risks but with Coach, they agreed to leave them on hold for now: they’re playing it tactical; she needs to qualify, first, and score high second. With her current difficulty, it’s best that she focuses on execution to be amongst the 14 best, with no need to strain her body more than what’s necessary. Still, she can’t help but pout a little between herself. Even if she’s back on the scene, she still needs to hold back. For now.

Focus, Sumire.

The music explodes in the final climax, where the Dance Steps sequence is. She crosses the entire floor diagonal while dancing, a grin spreading on her face. The delicate notes of the beginning are no more, with percussions now the absolute protagonists, a deviation from what’s considered the norm of her routines. She hopes it will leave both the public and the judges alike surprised – she put a great effort into building Character. Now that Artistry is a criterion too, she needs to play into that as best as she can.

And to the last beats of the drums, she kneels on the floor and does a little throw for the last time while her arms execute the very final waves of her choreography. The ball lands behind her back, right where it’s supposed to be, the music stops, and she spreads against it for her final pose. With her heart punching against her ribcage, she stills on the floor with her back arched, her arms spread wide, and one leg bent.

The public explodes into applause, someone even chanting her name. It could be the adrenaline, it could be a delusion, but she can swear there’s a chorus of “Welcome back!”

Heaving, she returns to a sitting position and eventually gets up, waving at the people and cameras starving to get a closer glimpse of her. In the corner of her eye, she catches sight of the monitor on the side of the floor with her name and time on it: ‘Yoshizawa Sumire’ has a red hue on the background, and the exhibition time reads 1:32.

Oh, damn.

A penalty of 10-tenths for the extra time, definitely not the greatest.

Groaning mentally, she walks out of the floor towards the kiss and cry, where Coach Hiraguchi is patting on the spot beside her.

“You did a good job. Could’ve avoided the time penalty, though.” She unfolds Sumire’s sweater and wraps it around her shoulders. And only due to that, Sumire realizes she’s been trembling.

“Ugh, I know,” she mutters. Maybe she let herself become absorbed in the music a bit too much.

“Let’s hope it’s not anything too compromising.”

Sumire nods, subtly chewing at her lower lip. This part is always the worst, sitting there on a stiff couch while monitors stream highlights of her performance, causing her to rethink the whole routine three times. No matter how many times she goes through it – no quick judgment will ever be quick enough, she’s sure. And most scores aren’t quick to come out, anyway.

She mindlessly plays with her hands in her lap. They’re sweaty, and she does her best not to pick at a tiny hangnail sticking out from the side of her right index.

The loudspeakers crackle. The general monitor lights up.

“After due evaluation, the united jury assigned the performance of Sumire Yoshizawa with the Ball a total score of 30.500.”

“Thirty?!”

Sumire turns to gawk at her coach, who hugs her tightly.

“Off to a great start, aren’t you?”

“Oh my god.”

“You know what that means, right?” Coach Hiraguchi’s whisper tickles her ear. “If you managed this, imagine how well you can do once this routine reaches its final form.”

She hugs her back, making sure her hold is strong.

“Yes!”

It’s a pity she had to leave the majority of the more complex jumps out of her exhibitions for now, but she can’t risk another injury when her goal is this close. It’s no problem, though: it means she still has a few aces up her sleeve for when it comes the time that she further steps up her game. Detaching from her coach, she picks the ball from the ground to make space for the next gymnast.

“I’ll go get changed then.”

Coach Hiraguchi gives her a nod and leaves the kiss and cry as well.

Waiting just behind the corner of the corridor, at the threshold between the frontstage and backstage, Sumire fiddles with the air-thin lines running around her hoop, following the path of the sparkling violet tape. It matches the black and purple leotard she’s wearing, long-sleeved this time, the closest she was able to find to something recalling her Violet outfit. Still, it’s not even similar. She will have to do something about that.

One person from the staff comes closer, gesturing her to walk forward as her name is about to be announced. Sumire steps past the invisible line still keeping her shielded from the hungry eyes of the public and smiles warmly, readying herself for the show once again.

She positions near the side of the competition area this time, kneeling on the floor and inside the hoop, one arm stretching up her head and the other crossed behind her neck. She keeps herself from wetting her lips, Ann’s voice scolding her if she ever was to ruin the makeup on stage. Raw energy is coursing through her, like an open circuit only waiting for her hands to touch the ground and close the circle. If her Ball routine was kind and melancholic and gracious, the Hoop is anything but.

The signal beeps, and to the very first notes of a trumpet, Sumire pushes her palms on the floor and scissors her legs so that she sends the hoop flying while she goes back to standing with a shove of her wrists. She adjusts her position, twirling so that the apparatus can nest between her arms, ready to be used for the next connection. She makes it spin between her fingers and turns to charge the first of only two split leaps.

Breathe in.

She jumps, spreading her legs wide while making the hoop travel under them in a full circle by passing it from one hand to the other. The elevation is good, her shape should be good, the landing is adequate but not perfect, and her right ankle protests against it with a subtle sting right to the bone marrow.

I know, I know!

She braces for the second one, aiming for less elevation but more control on the landing.

It goes smoothly.

Exhaling, she trots across the floor for the next Risk. She forgoes the stag leap entirely for now and directly throws the hoop in a wide arch, dancing under it. One last glance at the apparatus and she dives forward for a split headstand.

And the hoop lands right between her legs as she’s closing them. Good.

The singer’s voice stretches the notes, dragging the words before the refrain: time for the dance steps. She pushes the hoop forward, making sure it rolls on its own while she follows it, moving in time with the music. Her arms stretch forward, she swings an imaginary rapier in her hand, ready to fend off Shadows and foes; she stabs it right in the middle of the hoop as the apparatus spins backward in her direction, and as it returns between her fingers, she rolls it between her arms and mimics a guitar solo.

It’s not the same as being Violet again. But she hopes she can match the energy at least.

As both voice and music relax in a change of pace nearing the bridge, she performs a switch in Character too, like turning from battle to infiltration, and her movements become less sharp, more sinuous. She raises in pivots, flows into balances, spins on herself with her heels off the ground. It’s beginning to take a toll on her, but she smiles through it nonetheless. It’s almost time for the finale, anyway.

Suddenly, the motif of the refrain resounds once again through the arena and she prepares for the last Risk. She throws the hoop obliquely, twirls under it, and catches it right back in the middle of a cartwheel. Then, she kicks the hoop in the air again and repositions under it with a spin. One arm stretched out and high, the other hand running to the front of her face, she lets the hoop land back on her shoulder while she tips her neck slightly back for her finishing pose, Vanadis’ call on her mind.

Right on time.

Grinning, she does a round of salutes to the audience, both present and virtual, wondering if a specific group of people recognized a few bits of her movements.

She reunites with Coach Hiraguchi at the kiss and cry, who meets her with an approving nod.

“This has potential,” she mutters as soon as Sumire’s seated. “Not as high as the Ball but we can work on it.”

“I may have screwed some poses near the end.”

“Thought it too. You did well overall, though.”

She hums in response and waits for the score.

The judges must’ve had less to debate about because, after a much shorter amount of time, the general monitor lights up with her name and a 27.875 written on it.

“Not bad,” Coach Hiraguchi whistles, lowly. “The lack of jumps seems to be holding you back more than I anticipated, however. We’ll have to fix that.”

“Yes ma’am.” Sumire nods back. “I also have something else in mind for the leotard.”

“Do you? To think black suits you so well…”

“Oh no,” she laughs, breathy, “I was planning on a shift in model more than color…” She gets up and accepts the bottle of water Coach Hiraguchi is offering her.

“Two more to go. Keep this attitude up tomorrow and until the end of the competition, got it?”

She uncaps it and drinks a few sips. “Yes ma’am.”

With a big sigh, she lets her back sink into the mattress of her hotel room bed. The evening light creeps in from the window, tinting the ceiling orange. Despite being past 9 pm, there’s still dying light. Crazy to see how long daylight stretches on this side of the world.

Her cheeks pulse, her scalp itches. She desperately needs a shower but the bed is so comfortable…

From the gym bag forgotten on the floor, her phone buzzes, two short bursts of vibrations. Before she even has the time to ponder if she truly needs to get up and answer it, a third, lonely shake grumbles from down there.

“All right, all right…”

She dangles her feet from the mattress to get the necessary energy to abandon all that cozy softness, and propels herself back on her feet. She finds a notification from the Trio group chat, with a picture Akira sent.

It’s a blurry shot of Akechi sitting cross-legged on a sofa, with Morgana curled on his lap and a laptop stand before him. Both have their noses far closer to the monitor than what must be considered healthy, and Akechi especially wears a puzzled expression, something on the thin line between concentration and annoyance. “Some big fans you have, Sumi,” the accompanying message reads.

“I was not aware you took this photo,” is Akechi’s response.

Chuckling, Sumire types her own reply. She barely manages to send it before her phone vibrates to life once again, this time accompanied by a notification banner in the topmost section of the screen where the Phantom Thieves group chat logo sides with one of Futaba’s keyboard mashings. She resolves to read that other flood of messages later, though. It’s late enough already and she still has to eat dinner – how people manage to dine this late in the evening is a mystery she’s sure she will never crack.

She throws the phone back in the bag for now and strips off her sweaty gym clothes.

Shower, dinner, then a good night’s rest. And tomorrow, she will keep proving the Olympics will be welcoming her once again.

A sort of familiar procedure sets in from there. She wakes up, eats breakfast, then heads to the practice area of the Fair where individuals warm up and revise their routines while the groups perform. And once evening comes, she changes into her competition leotard, performs, waits for the score, changes again, and repeat.

The Clubs are what troubles her the most; they always are, always have been. Kasumi’s specialty. It will never cease to render her head a little fuzzy, she fears. Yet she gives this performance her best; Clubs music is often the most aggressive across the roster but she opted for something sweeter and more heartfelt, a tad of Sumire’s sentimentalism added to Kasumi’s boldness. And is this routine a bold one. Low on Risks but packed with apparatus difficulties, probably the most technical combination of moves she and Coach Hiraguchi ever created. She wasn’t too keen on letting Sumire indulge in Kasumi’s mannerisms again, the fear of emulation still lingering. Emulation was never the intention though. ‘I’m meaning it more as a dedication,’ she told Coach Hiraguchi. Her eyes must’ve been honest enough to convey the message.

So, she travels through the floor now, one throw at a time, one catch at a time, handling the Clubs with enough tension to coat the back of her neck with sweat and send her heart into a pumping frenzy. It’s not perfect, not yet. She doesn’t know if it will ever be.

She hopes Kasumi is proud of her nonetheless.

She’s still heaving from fatigue when the speakers announce her success: 27.020, less than one point away from her Hoop result.

She beams at Coach Hiraguchi, who smacks her on the shoulder, prompting her to get up.

“It’s time for the final show, Sumire.”

She nods, serious.

The Ribbon.

She positions herself on the floor, fingers trembling only in the slightest, her lips dried out despite the frankly embarrassing amount of glittered chapstick she used. The signal gives her the go, the piano starts, and her performance comes to life.

It’s a series of motions she knows by heart, yet each pivot, Risk, or catch feels new like she’s observing them with new eyes and executing them with a different body and an enlightened mind. Was this the sensation she desperately craved back then, when Kasumi seemed so out of reach that the only choice to climb her way up was to be like her? To be her?

She spins under the long tail of the ribbon, creating snakes and spirals with the fabric that morphs from blue to pink, and she couldn’t imagine doing this as anyone else but Sumire Yoshizawa. The JGA committee framed these Worlds as the general rehearsal before next year’s Olympics… and she’s taking part in this competition with four routines that speak of her. They aren’t perfect, they aren’t final. But even like this, they’re hers.

The deafening round of applause she gets is a confirmation her story has been conveyed.

The fact she scores 29.880, even without the jumps, even without the choreography being at its highest possible difficulty, tastes sweeter than anything else.

So, even when they don’t call her name for the podium in these Worlds either, she keeps her chin up and her shoulders squared, grinning at the cameras and swinging here and there at every selfie request that comes from the other gymnasts.

The floor is the place for her to shine. The time will come soon enough – or, as soon as one year can be.

Chapter Text

Sumire blinks at the billboards, signage, and floor stickers written in French. Right below the banner welcoming passengers to the Charles De Gaulle Airport, two arrows split the crowd into EU and non-EU travelers. All around her, languages mash together into one multicultural mutter.

Yet, French stands out the most.

Awareness adds up to the queue of planes landing on the runway.

I made it to Paris.

Still in awe, she lets herself be accompanied by Coach Hiraguchi, who’s eyeing her with fondness.

“It’s a whole other experience when the Olympics aren’t near your house, isn’t it?”

Sumire just nods as she lines for the customs. If, less than ten years ago, someone had told her she was set to secure not one but two Olympics, she would’ve smiled – concealing all sadness – and replied that they were speaking to the wrong Yoshizawa.

Now she’s going to compete in her second Olympics, at 23, already a veteran.

Despite being the only one left she hasn’t felt like ‘the wrong Yoshizawa’ in a long time.

With a shaky smile, she approaches the conveyor belt to retrieve her luggage. Emotions fight in her gut, and every cell of her body is vibrating. She’s thrilled but terrified, fired up yet scared to death. She fought for her second chance at climbing the Olympics podium, but the thought that there likely won’t be a third one claws at her chest.

The black leather luggage comes forth, and her cheeks heat up after the impressed and curious stares she still gets for it – she can’t help but wonder if it had been Akechi’s plan all along to pick something this flashy. Even though, Akira was most likely the one to blame for the concept behind this specific design. She picks it up and follows Coach Hiraguchi and the rest of the Japanese delegation towards the Arrival lounge. There are plenty of them this year: five for the group routines, the two backup athletes, and another individual senior beside herself. Deep into her heart, she hopes to have contributed to the attention rhythmic gymnastics gained since the last Olympics three years prior.

What matters, though, is that she’s here, here and now. It all becomes more real with each step she takes out of the airport, into the transfer, and down the streets of the Olympic Village.

And with each step, the podium, too, grows closer.

The morning of the individual Qualifications she opens her eyes before the alarm has any chance to go off. The screen of her phone lights up, flooded with messages from the other side of the world, and the time marks 7.56 am on Thursday, August 8^th.

She must’ve forgotten to close the curtains the previous night; the sun had saturated her assigned room at the Olympic Village. Stretching her back, she sits on the mattress and takes in the morning light. Across from the bed, tied between two clothes hangers, there’s a Japanese flag with everyone’s signatures scattered on the white around the red circle. Despite it being nothing more than a piece of fabric, it almost feels like it’s there to greet her ‘good morning’.

Sumire swings her legs out and slides the door window open to the balcony: the training venues on the other side of the street are already bustling with activity, the very opposite of the Seine flowing placidly past the Village Plaza, down the road on her right.

Sunrays kiss her cheeks, and her heart beats like she’s coming alive for the first time. She glances at the cloudless sky and beams.

“Kasumi… I am about to make history.”

She turns tail and begins packing all her stuff for the day. The Qualifications for her rotation are set to begin at 10, and she needs a good breakfast and to complete the last round of practice before the competition begins.

With her rather chunky gym bag on one shoulder and her hoop case on the other, she throws a final look at the signed flag before heading out for the first of – hopefully – two big days.

Coach Hiraguchi is waiting outside the building, hand on one hip and cutting eyes scanning for her. She smirks upon seeing her approaching, and Sumire can’t help but wonder when her smile has gotten a bit wrinkly.

“Coach.”

“Are you ready?”

She tightens the hold around the strip of her bag.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” On second thought, she chews on her lower lip, looking away. “I hope I won’t have to go first again.”

Coach Hiraguchi lets out a heartfelt laugh and circles her shoulders with her arm, squeezing her into half a hug.

“I’m sure you can do it if that’s the case,” she whispers.

“That’d not be a great start, though,” she utters back.

“On the contrary, Sumire. You could show everyone who they need to fear.”

She exhales a half-baked chuckle. Still, she hopes she keeps her fingers crossed not to be the opener again. And, feeling too daring for it, she mentally prays for Hoop to be her first apparatus: neutral territory, not as painstakingly difficult as her Ribbon and Ball, not as emotionally charged as her Clubs. She wets her lips and hugs her Coach back.

“I will do my best.”

NOT the Phantom Thieves’ GC

Akira ❤️: [photo attached]
Akira ❤️: she’s about to go

Ann: OMG LOOK AT HER

Haru: She looks wonderful. Please root extra hard in our stead, too!

Makoto: You can do it, Sumire.

Futaba: qualify or else 😈😈

Ann: [photo attached]
Ann: Leblanc’s cheering for you!!

Akechi 🐦⬛: Why are you using this chat if you’re all gathered together?

Ryuji: so sumi can read the commentary duh
Ryuji: why r u writing here anyway don’t you got something better to watch rn

Ann: ughh the streaming’s lagging like hell

Yusuke: We seriously risk losing the beginning of her Hoop routine if this continues.

Akechi 🐦⬛: … we will be sending a vidoe recording.

Futaba: you better or i’m extracting that from your phones
Futaba: yes you too akira

Akira ❤️: [photo attached]
Akira ❤️: walking on the floor right at this moment!
Akira ❤️: ouch Futaba

Ann: NOBODY MOVES THE STREAMING IS WORKING THANK GOD

Makoto: Is that the leotard you and Yusuke designed?

Ann: YEAH isn’t it awesome

Haru: It fits her so well! I think it looks pretty familiar, too…

Yusuke: I’m glad you noticed; she asked us for something resembling her Violet outfit.
Yusuke: It’s a perfect match with the mood of the song… as an artist, I feel profound pride in knowing such a unique piece is being displayed for the whole world to see.

Futaba: HOLY SHIT THOSE JUMPS??
Futaba: they were NOT there the last time

Ryuji: man im still wondering how she does it all
Ryuji: id be screwed if someone asked me to do that

Haru: The dance steps are very bold! I’m loving how she’s performing along with the music.

Futaba: WAS THAT A MOCK GUITAR STRUM
Futaba: when did she get so flashy
Futaba: akira is this your doing

Yusuke: That figure jump was rather captivating.

Haru: I believe that’s called a butterfly!

Makoto: Ryuji is right though, I’m still amazed by how confidently she’s handling the Hoop.

Ann: SHOOT she had to adjust last second for that catch

Futaba: the judges better pretend they haven’t seen that
Futaba: or else
Futaba: Mona says: “QUIET the music’s ending.”

Akechi 🐦⬛: [video attached]

Futaba: damn is there this much lag
Futaba: hey you boys from the past but also the future, how well did she do

Akira ❤️: The jury’s still judging

Futaba: ohhhh judges, you want to forget that slip-up soooo much

Makoto: I can feel the tension from here… I’m so nervous.

Akira ❤️: OMG

Ann: WHAT

Yusuke: What happened?

Haru: I think they’re about to announce the scores on the stream, too.

Futaba: OMFG 33.100

Ann: she ate???

Haru: Well done, Sumi!

Makoto: You did great!

Yusuke: That was marvelous.

Ryuji: keep it up!!

Futaba: Monamona says you did well too
Futaba: meeting adjourned! see yall for the next routine

Makoto: Akira, please tag us once she starts preparing again so that we can come back to the streaming in time.

Haru: I actually think I’m going to watch some more gymnasts!

Yusuke: I was pondering if I should continue watching as well.
Yusuke: Truly, such a showcase of sublime skill cannot go to waste…

Ryuji: u know u can watch them all on yt in about three days right

[...]

Akira ❤️: [photo attached]
Akira ❤️: she’s about to go pt. 2

Futaba: we’re so back gang
Futaba: sumi’s #1 fanclub

Akechi 🐦⬛: I don’t mean to spoil your fun, but you might want to reconsider that.
Akechi 🐦⬛: [photo attached]

Ann: akira
Ann: akira is that a freaking BANNER

Futaba: quick someone who’s good at art draws him like that concert meme on twt
Futaba: @ Yusuke

Makoto: Mona says to quit wasting time, she’s on the floor!

Haru: She looks like a sea fairy with that leotard…

Ann: mmh! the movements are sooo gracious, too

Yusuke: I am at a loss of words… The mood in this routine with the Ball is completely different from the previous one!

Makoto: She caught the Ball between her legs after such a high throw?!

Haru: Eheh, isn’t she already deserving of a medal?
Haru: Look at how smoothly each connection flows…

Futaba: @ judges you want this girl to pass the qualification soooo bad

Ryuji: man the music changed?? that was so sudden

Makoto: I love how she highlighted the shift in mood with those jumps, though!

Haru: They’re called turning split leaps! Because she’s jumping while executing a split and everything is done with a 180° rotation.

Futaba: someone did her homework uh

Haru: Sorry, I just find gymnastics as a whole to be so deeply enchanting! I always search for video commentary after major competitions like the Olympics.
Haru: Oh no, it seems like the Ball went a little too sideways with that throw!

Futaba: me @ the judges 🥷 🥷

Akechi 🐦⬛: [video attached]

Ann: already??

Futaba: damn the lag’s getting worse

Yusuke: Seems like she’s finished now. I appreciated how her final choreography and pose highlighted so well the accents in the music.

Ryuji: oh man now it’s time for the scores

Makoto: I wonder if the fact that Akira and Akechi still haven’t said anything means the jury is still debating?

Haru: That’s most likely.

Futaba: UGH not the streaming lagging at this exact moment
Futaba: hey future boys give us something??
Futaba: silence

Ann: should we be worried or

Akechi 🐦⬛: [photo attached]

Futaba: damn akira’s going all in with that banner

Ann: 34.250!!

Makoto: !!

Haru: Awesome!

Ryuji: u show ‘em sumi

Yusuke: Ah, we’re about halfway through… I wish for her to perform the other two routines just as beautifully.

 [...]

Akira ❤️: guys you are not ready for her Clubs outfit

Ann: you say that as if me and Yusuke haven’t designed that one, too

Akira ❤️: [photo attached]

Makoto: … wow. I have to say, you both surpassed yourselves. The gradient from pink to blue is truly something else. And Sumi’s wearing it like a movie star!

Haru: Love it!

Ryuji: good luck with this one too, sumi!

Futaba: GLHF

Yusuke: Has she slotted the Clubs together? I had no idea one could do that.

Ann: wow i’m 😵💫😵💫 already, i have no idea how she’s handling TWO

Makoto: She’s smiling wider than before… I wonder why.

Haru: I bet she’s having so much fun! The music sure is cheerful, too.

Ryuji: oh damn that balance didn’t seem so well balanced

Ann: she also had to adjust to catch the clubs ow

Futaba: @ judges let’s pretend that did not happen

Ann: JUMPS!! sooo nice

Futaba: can’t believe she just drummed the clubs on the floor following the piano
Futaba: akira stop rubbing off on her
Futaba: wait i think i know this song

Makoto: This sequence was so long I lost count of all the elements, I bet it was worth a lot of points.

Futaba: omG I FOUND THE SONG ITS FROM A SAD ASS ANIME IM SO EMOTIONAL

Yusuke: I had never heard this song prior to her performance but I found the lyrics deeply moving. The motif of shining despite the sadness and moving on was very touching, too.

Ann: Mona says to put two and two together.

Yusuke: Oh.

Ryuji: oh shit they’re about to announce the scores

Akechi 🐦⬛: [video attached]

Futaba: seems connection isnt failing us anymore, gg

Haru: 32.450, that’s not bad at all! I recall she said in an interview the Clubs aren’t her stronger apparatus.

Futaba: G FUCKING G SUMI

Yusuke: Regardless, that was a sight to behold for sure. I will hold the memory of this performance in my heart.

Haru: I’m very excited to see the next one.

Makoto: Is it the Ribbon?

Haru: Yes!
Haru: It’s usually her strongest.

Ryuji: dont jinx it!

[...]

Akechi 🐦⬛: [photo attached]
Akechi 🐦⬛: [photo attached]

Ann: looking cool, sumi! love the blue fit

Futaba: @ akira Monamona says to please keep it together with the banner

Akechi 🐦⬛: At least Morgana doesn’t have to be seated near him.

Makoto: It’s starting!

Ryuji: she’s holding the ribbons handle with her toes??? what????

Haru: That was such a smooth move, I adored it!

Makoto: I have to say, watching her performing is always stunning but I’m captivated by the Ribbon like nothing else.

Ann: she’s also slaying with this music tbh

Makoto: … that, too.

Yusuke: I agree, the melody is somewhat melancholic but also deeply soothing, like spending time under the comforter on stormy nights.

Futaba: damn are you a poet also

Makoto: What are the figures she’s drawing back and forth with the ribbon called?

Haru: Those are the snakes!

Ryuji: she just threw the whole thing with her foot man im outta here i cant she’s too good

Ann: SHE DID IT AGAIN
Ann: … wow the music just got sadder, hasn’t it?

Makoto: It’s almost like I can feel the loneliness.

Haru: Oh, wait, it’s picking back up!

Ann: …

Futaba: …

Makoto: Uhm… am I hallucinating, or does the choreography give the impression she’s dancing with someone else who’s not actually there? I mean, there is a violin playing with the piano, too.

Haru: Mh-mh! It almost looks like a real duet.

Ann: i am SO emotional rn

Ryuji: holy shit those jumps???

Futaba: hell she’s moving at the speed of light how can she do that

Yusuke: My eyes can barely follow her, I wonder how the judges are faring.

Futaba: GOTTA GO FAST SUMI SHOW THEM

Makoto: Oh, the music’s slowing again… I guess we’re near the end.

Haru: Doesn’t her pose look like she’s trying to reach out to us?

Futaba: i have no words left that was such a blast

Makoto: The public is being very loud.

Ann: AS THEY SHOULD

Futaba: @ judges how are we feeling about this masterpiece

Haru: I bet she will score well!

Ryuji: don’t jinx it! man!! it’s basic sport’s courtesy

Yusuke: Morgana wonders how come you know that word

Futaba: Sumi if you’ll see this, Ryuji has just taken Mona by the scruff of the neck

Ann: oh god the results are almost in aren’t they

Akira ❤️: DJSVBJBJRDNJNFJFS

Akechi 🐦⬛: [video attached]

Futaba: what
Futaba: OH HELL YEAH
Futaba: 33.850 WOOO

Ann: someone good at math put together the overall score

Akechi 🐦⬛: 130.650

Ann: thanks

Akechi 🐦⬛: They displayed it on the billboard.

Futaba: whys the streaming NOT sending the updated graphics

Akira ❤️: SHES FOURTH

Ann: !!!

Futaba: !!!!

Makoto: Here they are!

Ann: indeed she’s fourth
Ann: how many gymnasts will pass?

Haru: Eight of them.
Haru: Oh wow, she’s putting a nice distance compared to most of the others. I don’t think she’s at risk of not qualifying, to be honest.

Ryuji: man what do i speak for if nobody ever listens to me

Futaba: and so. now we wait

Haru: Yes. This was the first rotation, we shall wait for the second group of gymnasts to perform in the afternoon before we have any definitive results.

Yusuke: Won’t that be quite late for us, though? Well into the night.

Ryuji: like you got anythin’ better to do

Ann: guess we’re stuck here waiting then

Futaba: i demand curry! SOJIROO

[...]

You: [photo attached]
You: Looks like I qualified! I made it to the final!

Futaba: crying screaming rolling on the floor tearing my clothes apart sumi you’re amazing

Makoto: Congratulations!

Haru: Deserved!

Ryuji: man i cant wait to see you in the final

Yusuke: If the Qualification round was such a spectacle already, I cannot imagine how breathtaking of a sight we will have tomorrow.

Ann: are you celebrating tonight?

You: I’m leaning more toward resting if I’m being honest…

Ann: oh right right, sorry
Ann: have a good evening, then

Futaba: read you tomorrow!

You: (๑>◡<๑)

The zip of her Ball leotard emits the faintest scratch as Coach Hiraguchi pulls it up along her right side, a perfect fit. Her chest is suddenly no more made of skin, but of glitters and beads that recall the tides of the sea, with fabric extending barely past her hips in the white frills of the ocean’s foam.

Sumire turns to look at her coach, who meets her with an approving nod.

“You’re up next, Sumire. The final is about to begin.”

She can barely contain the tremble in her voice and the sting of her eyes – not due to terror, but excitement.

“Coach… I think I can do it.”

Hiraguchi gives her a pat on the shoulders and ushers her to walk out of the changing rooms and towards the stage. The showdown is about to begin and somehow, saving the world from the grip of Dr. Maruki’s false reality all those years back seemed like nothing compared to this.

One of the operators working in the Porte de la Chapelle Arena gestures for her to come out.

The lights blind her out there in the open, as she and her Coach take different directions; Hiraguchi heading to the kiss and cry and Sumire striding toward the center of the stage with her chin held high.

In Tokyo, the crowd had been nonexistent and the round of applause fickle.

Now the roar rising from the public is deafening, even more than during the Qualifications, and the boast of hands clapping and people cheering in all sorts of languages are nearly drowning out the speakers announcing her incoming routine, first in English and then in French.

With a chill down her spine, Sumire takes her spot on the mat, crossing both her arms above her head while cupping the Ball with her palms. Her heart is beating so fast she’s afraid it will cover the incoming music.

But one loud beep signals the beginning of the exhibition, and as the slow, delicate notes of a piano resound through the Arena, she pushes her leg up near her face and raises into the first balance of her first-ever Olympic final.

Spectators, judges, and rival gymnasts alike already had a taste of her exhibitions, enough to slip side glances in her direction every time she walked in and out of the corridor connecting the Arena with the changing rooms. And yet, she and Hiraguchi have been careful not to unveil each of their aces.

All the Difficulties that she had previously performed with visual control, she executes them without, with the ball landing in her palms or in the back of her knees, or in the crook of her lower back once she bends back after a Risk. All the spins she’d placed under the longer throws now have one additional twirl. The balance and pivots that granted her a spot in the final take shape on the tip of her toes rather than flat-footed.

This is the me that shines with fairy, orchestral music.

She hopes the public is watching in awe. She’s giving them what they expect in a form they could’ve never predicted.

Her mind returns to the countless mornings, evenings, Sundays, and holidays she’s spent facing the Odaiba Bay, with wind and sea matting her hair on the way in and out of the Aeon Club. She recalls the ice cream she ate with Akira right after the Club doubtfully took her in; the scorching sun on an empty parking lot the day of her first Olympics; the view from the Rainbow Bridge that time Akechi challenged her to traverse it from side to side by bike.

Everything in Odaiba is bathed in blue: the Ocean, the clear sky on days of particularly strong currents, the glass reflections of newly constructed skyscrapers, the monorail crossing the Bay. She’s spent in Odaiba more time than she’s ever had the guts to count. And this routine, with her upper body covered in cerulean glitters, is a homage to that. The Sumire that loves gymnastics more than anything else in the world.

The mood of the music changes, and she molds her movements to reflect that. As percussions grow louder, her moves become bolder. Violin and drums form a duet where none wants to cede the role of protagonist to the other instrument.

Her chest becomes tight with effort, but she needs to push through towards the end.

The jump sequence comes – they’re supposed to be three, but she inserts a fourth. The screams of the public are so strong they manage to break into the flow of concentration, and she smiles.

The last Risk approaches. She catches herself gloating a tad too much and mentally chastises her mind to return on track for the grand finale, especially seeing that she needs to operate a bit of an adjustment to her receiving position to make sure the ball actually lands between her shoulder blades and doesn’t bounce off. That wouldn’t be good.

Plastic presses against the skin, and she makes the ball roll past her shoulders and down her arms to perform the last difficulties of this routine.

She rolls on the ground after one smaller throw and bends her neck and legs towards each other, waiting for the ball to land on her lower back just as the drums give out the last notes.

She stills, and everything else does with her.

But silence is shattered soon enough with the public exploding into applauses and shouts.

Sumire picks up the Ball and stands back up, waving at the rows of spectators with a bright grin before heading to the kiss and cry.

Coach Hiraguchi meets her with a tight hug and covers her shoulders with the sweater of the Japanese National Team.

“You did perfect with the jumps, good girl.”

She giggles and clenches the ball around her chest. Cameras zoom closer to her position to catch her every reaction. Her stomach clenches as she pushes herself to show off her most cheerful expression even if she’d rather avoid this part specifically.

She drums with her fingertips on the smooth and glittery surface of her aquamarine ball. The goal they set for the Ball final was between 33 and 35, and if her mental tally is correct she should’ve cut it – no major mistakes on her part, both Dance Steps sequences were complete, and they’ve upped the difficulty of almost every element…

The loudspeakers crackle. The general monitor lights up.

“After due evaluation, the united jury assigned the performance of Sumire Yoshizawa with the Ball a total score of 35.145.”

Joy sparks through her, igniting her body, and she beams at the cameras with her index and middle fingers taking the shape of a V. Coach Hiraguchi gives her a pat of encouragement on her back, and they both get up from the rectangular sofa as the general ranking gets updated in real-time: Sumire is third, and there are three more routines to perform.

As she walks across the mat for the second time, her eyes cut through the public with the naïve hope of spotting two faces and one banner in particular.

She knows she won’t find Akira nor Akechi amongst the thousands of people clenching the edges of their seats today – still, it’s a nice solace to know she can at least try because they’re here and they are about to watch Sumire spinning as Violet did.

She lowers on the floor, one knee pressed against the ground and chest puffed. She wonders with a subtle smile if her Senpais will get the message she’s about to send. Hopefully, the fact she’s wearing a reimagination of her Violet  will help to get the point across.

The signal beeps, a trumpet sounds, and Sumire pushes her palms on the floor and scissors her legs to send the hoop flying while she goes back to standing with a shove of her wrists. In her mind, the mental flow of Metaverse battles unfolds: ambushing, gaining the upper hand, striking fast and hard, leaving the battlefield as soon as possible to return to lurk in the shadows until the next enemy comes into sight.

She starts with a chain of jumps, four this time too, and despite a sting in her right ankle when she lands, she grits her teeth and moves on. Speed and power were her strong suit in the Metaverse and she’s no less now: she’s betting on Character and Difficulty for once, knowingly forsaking the extra-precise Execution in favor of building up her D-score.

The singer’s voice slows down, dragging the words before the final refrain, and she matches it with suave dance steps. The breathing of a Safe Room before the ultimate confrontation. She pushes the hoop forward so that it rolls on its own while she follows it, moving in time with the music. Her arm jabs forward holding an imaginary rapier against Shadows and madmen who wish to overwrite reality; it’s her way to fight the shadow of her past, of her regrets.

The hoop interrupts the travel forward and begins rolling back to her, and she picks it up as the instruments explode into the last portion of the music track.

She throws the hoop obliquely, twirls under it four times, and catches it right back in the middle of a cartwheel. Then, she kicks the hoop in the air again and repositions under it with a spin. One arm stretched out and high, the other hand running to the front of her face, she lets the hoop land back on her shoulder while she tips her neck slightly back for her finishing pose, Vanadis’ call raging into her mind.

She lowers her limbs, chest heaving. Her lungs are struggling to keep up with how much her muscles crave oxygen. Yet the public seems to have loved her performance, and the Japanese flags scattered around the Arena wiggle stronger than ever before.

She gives a bow and a general round of salute. Her legs are quivering with effort as she approaches the sofa of the kiss and cry, and she does her best to sit gracefully without flopping on the cushion like a sack of potatoes.

Coach Hiraguchi hands her a water bottle, which she gladly accepts. It’s sadly lukewarm but she drinks a good quarter of it in one go nonetheless. She also picks up the towel and presses it against her face with delicate movements, careful not to smudge her makeup.

“Did I screw the poses, still?” she whispers.

“Less than what you usually do. Still not ideal, but it was the tradeoff of this routine.”

Sumire nods, chewing at the inner portion of her cheeks. Trying to bring Violet on stage is the boldest she can be without outright falling into old patterns of trying to imitate Kasumi.

The led monitors light up once again, glowing with a big 34.090 written in black numbers over white.

She beams as Coach Hiraguchi gives a curt nod of approval. The general ranking shows that she moved to the fifth position. The score being under thirty-four and a half isn’t ideal but she still has two more routines to perform.

Passing a hand over her leotard, Sumire shivers.

The right half of her body is covered in light blue, her color.

The left half of her shines with delicate pink, Kasumi’s hue.

She had tried on this leotard countless times to ensure it fit perfectly and qualified for the final wearing it, yet seeing it now, on the verge of going on stage, fighting for her dream one last time, causes a shiver to run down her spine.

With tightness seizing the bridge of her nose and the corners of her eyes, she picks up the pair of sparkling gold clubs and heads out of the changing room.

Coach Hiraguchi is already waiting for her in the corridor, halfway through the stage. She takes her in and smiles warmly.

“You look stunning, Sumire.”

She tucks nonexistent strands of baby hair behind her ears. Anxiety is eating her alive.

“Do I look like myself?”

Her Coach nods, turning serious. “It won’t be a dust of pink that turns you back into Kasumi at this point. I can tell.”

“You can?”

“I just have to look you in the eyes.”

Sumire swallows back the tears and sniffs unsubtly. “Thanks, Coach.”

“Come on. Let’s take another step closer to that medal. I’m sure she would be proud.”

Sumire now has to quickly blink more than a few times so as not to ruin her makeup. The Clubs were Kasumi’s specialty, always have been, and she’s about to perform one big, heartfelt homage to her. It was the only way that felt right.

As the personnel gestures for her to come forth, Sumire follows the instructions and approaches the mat once again. She positions closer to one of the corners and locks the clubs together one on top of the other, then uses them as a sort of cane held in place by the palm of her hand, while she forms a sinuous curve with the rest of her body.

The beep rings loud, and the music begins with the cheerful strums of an electric guitar.

Sumire lowers herself for the beginning of a cartwheel as, with the hand clenching the Clubs-cane, she throws the apparatus in the air. As soon as she’s back up she strikes a pose to the public, timing the movement with the shift of the music as trumpets join the melody. The Clubs-cane lands back into the inner crook of her elbow and, twirling, she detaches them from one another so that she can get serious about her performance.

With smaller and bigger throws, she dances across the floor, and her fingers spin, bend, and hook to form all the mills and figures that Clubs require.

She still remembers the first time she asked Kasumi to show her one of her tricks, not long before she begged her parents to join the gymnastics team herself. Looking back to it, the figure Kasumi produced wasn’t a mill by any definition of it, yet Sumire watched in awe, and asked her to do the trick again and again and again.

The music builds up toward the refrain, and Sumire builds difficulty with a sequence of three split leaps with her back bent and her arms held high to draw a cross in the air with the Clubs. Right after the landing she launches herself into a Risk, throwing one club during a stag leap and the other while she turns under it; still she manages to have them back between her fingers at the same time.

She performs some more tricks following the music and the voice of the singers getting faster and faster – Clubs always made her feel like she was some sort of magician.

And here they are, the piano notes that propel the song into the refrain: she drums along on the floor with her clubs while executing a balance, then right after the song explodes she throws the Clubs up in the air for the next Risk… one of Kasumi’s favorites.

The first Club is thrown, horizontally, through a kick of the thigh, and as soon as it completes its ascent and descent, the second one follows without Sumire’s watching it. Then she performs three rotations, and as soon as the second Club is back in her hand she lowers her trunk, spinning, and throws the same Club again only to catch it right back from under her knee. A whole point of Risk that she practiced over and over until it flowed perfectly.

The chorus of voices sings ‘It was you, it was you, the one who made me realize if we can make even the darkness shine, it will become a starry sky’ and Sumire feels more alive than ever before.

She’s carrying on her sister’s dream, her own dream, and she can only hope Kasumi is watching her with pride. Gone are the times she thought of her with bitterness and envy, and even if she can’t replace those years with more cheerful memories, still she can showcase a piece of Kasumi for the world to see. Shining brightly as if they were two, performing on the floor.

As the song draws to a close, Sumire stops to slip her eyes closed and hug herself under the lights of the Arena Porte de la Chapelle.

Waves of applause wash over her, and it’s a miracle that she doesn’t burst into tears then and there.

Gritting her teeth, keeping her lips sealed tightly, she walks towards Coach Hiraguchi waiting for her with open arms at the kiss and cry.

The embrace is warm and heartfelt, and she can’t do anything but exhale one lonely sob.

“I don’t know for the judges,” her Coach says with a surprisingly strained voice, “but you really touched me with that one. And I’m the person who built that routine.”

Sumire only hugs her even stronger and doesn’t let go until the loudspeakers announce the jury’s response.

“After due evaluation, the united jury assigned the performance of Sumire Yoshizawa with the Clubs a total score of 33.450.”

Her eyes open wide. Her hands run to cover her mouth. One whole point over her Qualifications score.

The led wall with the general ranking gets updated.

With 102.685 she’s running fourth. Her strongest routine is yet to come.

She bets people are already whispering that she might make it to the podium.

Her fingertips are cold despite it being August. Her face is scorching despite her fingertips being cold. And shivers traverse her spine despite the fact her cheeks are scorching.

Her mouth is dry and the skin on her lips tenses with each smile as if about to break despite all the lip balm and gloss she applied.

The loudspeakers roar.

“Performing at the 2024 Summer Olympics in women’s rhythm gymnastics All-Around final with the Ribbon, representing Japan, Sumire Yoshizawa!”

She strides towards the center of the mat, swishing the tail of her Ribbon left and right, a nervous match of the emotions coursing through her. The long fabric with a gradient of blue, violet, and pink unfolds from the point of the handle. Hopefully, it won’t knot. Not again.

She nests the wand of the Ribbon between her toes, crosses the other leg on top, and delicately hugs her waist with one arm and her collarbones with the other. In the split second before the show begins, her mind stumbles upon the memory of her injury but she shoves that away. That’s not for now. Now it’s her time to shine.

After the beep, the first notes of a piano resound, full of melancholy.

The Ribbon was the last routine of the season she and Hiraguchi had built. Sumire had come to her Coach with the need to tell one specific story – her own. But the first attempts at doing that with pre-existing music ended rather poorly, so they asked Yusuke to contact an acquaintance of his who worked as a composer to arrange something tailor-made for Sumire.

The result, she’s about to show it to the entire world.

She opens her arms wide and raises to stand on the tiptoes of one leg to perform a split pivot. Despite the deep sadness embedded in the piano solo, the pacing is rather unforgiving, quick and anxious like how she felt when the need to get better, to become perfect, was haunting her every day.

And so are the snakes and spirals she draws with the Ribbon, the way she jostles with the handle like it’s hot coals, throwing it around from hand to hand in an unrelenting flow of movements. There isn’t a moment to rest as balances become throws and then spins during a Risk. As she, alone, proceeds in her climb to the Olympics.

She halts; the rhythm changes once again as percussions and strings get added to the melody. Sumire keeps dancing as her mind runs to Akira, her Coach, her family, and all the people who supported her, cheered for her, and pushed her forward all these years so that she could be here, today, screaming through careful balances and crafted choreography what she’s capable of.

The music runs to the midpoint of the exercise and Sumire keeps a mental tally of every spin and every pivot to make sure she’s executing at least one additional rotation than what she performed during the qualification. No less. She has to win this, she has to be on that podium.

But suddenly every other instrument disappears from the scene, leaving only the piano. Sumire enters the first Dance Steps sequence with gritted teeth and an aching body, strained after three whole routines executed to near perfection. This is always the point where she gets tired; the reason why Hiraguchi insisted on placing the Steps sequence here. The lone piano reflects the injury, the time she spent crying alone in her room, thinking that her career was over, that her dream could never be.

Yet she pushed herself through that, still.

The music quickens once again, and the violin is back before anything else. The space of the Arena disappears, and inside Sumire’s mind, she’s simply performing for Kasumi’s eyes to see like they often used to do when sneaking some secret practice outside the official one. Kasumi would clap at her elegance, help her untie the knots when they formed; she would throw her the Ribbon when it fell, proving the solidity of her reflexes when Sumire was in doubt.

It feels like that again, now, as both piano and violin duet while she’s throwing the Ribbon high in the air and twirling under it. When the wand lands back between her fingers, it’s like it’s been handed to her by Kasumi herself.

The percussions also join the melody again, and the track begins the ascent towards the climax.

The tail of the ribbon follows her and swirls through the air, her best ally. She propels the apparatus higher and higher still; she makes sure it lands back between her legs as she bends, spins, and trots on the floor, getting ready for the turning split leaps.

This was the routine that broke her.

It won’t happen again.

She jumps, giving her body the push for the first rotation, and her arms open wide as she bends her back while the tail of the ribbon is in clear sight in the corner of her eye. The landing isn’t as polished as she’d dreamed, and her ankle gives her a reminder of that, but she gets ready to chain the second, then third, then fourth jump of the sequence.

Then she chains a fifth and lands it.

Sumire’s bones ache, and still, she keeps grinning as she’s forced to retreat her previous mental statement: this is the most alive she’s ever felt.

The other instruments fade out from the music, leaving once again the piano as the sole protagonist.

As the very last notes die down, Sumire creates a spiral around herself with the ribbon, placing the hand clenching the wand close to her chest. The other arm stretches out, toward the public, toward her future.

It’s a standing ovation.

She blinks like she’s just awakened from a dream. She gets overwhelmed by the reaction so much that she needs to stutter back before she manages to regain her footing. Smiling, she waves her hand to spectators and cameras and bows before heading to the kiss and cry.

Coach Hiraguchi’s face is a mask. Her features are tensed like she’s trying her best to keep every reaction from showing.

Sumire shoots her a puzzled look but receives no answers. Has she messed up? Was there a knot in the tail after all and she didn’t notice?

Panic begins to gnaw at her as she sits on the couch, torturing the fabric of the Ribbon.

Her head is starting to ache with how long her hair has been trapped in a tight bun. Some spots even itch like hell but she keeps herself from scratching them. A rock sits at the base of her stomach, and she picks up the sweater to contain how much the leftover sweat is making her shiver. Her eyes subtly burn, too dry after a whole day of wearing contacts. Even her face is feeling self-conscious about the makeup that sits on it.

Why are the judges taking so long?

She stops herself before she can nib at the little patches of dried skin on her lips, so she resolves to chew on the inner part of her cheeks, instead.

Worried, she turns to Coach Hiraguchi, taking a breath to ask if everything’s alright.

Static noise comes from the speakers. The general monitor lights up.

“After due evaluation, the united jury assigned the performance of Sumire Yoshizawa with the Ribbon a total score of 36.000.”

The wand of the Ribbon clatters on the ground.

Thirty-six?!

She slowly raises a trembling index to point at each number of the score to ensure she’s reading it correctly.

It’s thirty-six.

It’s practically a world record.

A weight crashes into her, with Coach Hiraguchi’s arms closing around her chest.

“I knew it. I knew it! Sumire! A world record!”

Ah… yes. That’s me. Sumire.

She’s still having difficulty breathing due to how hard Coach Hiraguchi is holding her, yet her eyes track the overall ranking with meticulous precision.

The moment the monitor refreshes, her name is up on the first spot, 138.685 points in total.

People have been out there trying to guess whether she would’ve won bronze or not.

And she took gold.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, “I’m going to have so much ice cream.”