Chapter Text
It was with much reluctance that Utahime decided to sign up for a private lesson. But it was an insurmountable difference in skill—trailing behind Shoko and the others was unfortunately humiliating, no matter how kindly they picked her up every time she wiped out. And Shoko and the others would be able to do black diamonds or double blacks if they weren’t constantly watching her trip over her own skis and face planting on the slopes.
It was her own admission of this truth that felt the most bitter, like she was giving into something, that she had lost a battle of attrition. But it wasn’t a loss to admit you needed help—she told her students this all the time—so how come it was so hard to acknowledge it yourself?
The tang of sunscreen on her tongue; being surrounded by children younger than her students; the fact that the instructor they had assigned to her was late; these all contributed equally to her displeasure. It would have been nice to leave the beginner’s meeting area on time, but instead she was stuck trailing behind a string of five year olds without ski poles who seemed to think grabbing onto her snow pants to propel themselves forward was the next most suitable option.
Utahime settled for standing near the plastic fencing as the crowd dissipated.
“You over there, are you here for a lesson?” An attendant who had been directing other resort visitors now turns his attention to Utahime.
“Yes.”
“You must be here for the one-hour private with Gojo then?”
The tardy instructor’s name. “I believe so.”
Instead, the attendant points towards a lanky man.
“Yo, Satoru. I think your student is here.”
Well, now this was awkward. That man, the instructor, had been standing there for some time.
The man skates over with ease before extending a hand to greet her. “Nice to meet you!”
Utahime tries to squeeze back through her glove. “Me as well.”
“The name’s Gojo. So, Utahime, was it?”
Utahime nods, slightly surprised when he nails the pronunciation just right.
“Why don’t you tell me about your current ski abilities? How about we go up on the bunny slope first so I can just see how you’re doing and then we can take it from there, answer any questions you might have, so on, so forth.”
(The first thing Utahime notices about the man was the fact that he had the most transparent eyes she had ever seen. Without goggles on, his eyes changed shades in the light. She had met people with light colored eyes who had claimed the same—some sort of iridescence—but they were liars. This man was no liar.)
“I’m able to ski greens, but I’m having trouble with my confidence on the blues. I really want to feel stable and stop falling.”
“Well, you know what they say. If you aren’t falling—”
“—You aren’t learning.” Utahime sighs. “I know, but it still hurts and I’m getting old, so I’d rather avoid that.”
“Precisely. Though you don’t look old, you can’t be what? A day above thirty?”
If he hadn’t been so politely reassuring, Utahime would have hit him for guessing her age almost to the dot.
Gojo senses her slight annoyance and proceeds to make a path through the long line. This was one of the perks to compensate for the short lesson time, he explains, expedited wait times. Utahime shuffles behind on her skis, the boot cutting into her shin with every jerk.
“So what do you do for a living?” He’s perpetually cheery, swinging long legs and longer skis on a chair lift that creeps forward. The chair begins to swing, and Utahime is almost tempted to tell him to cut it out before she remembers she is not the teacher here.
“I’m a teacher.”
His skis are skinny and expensive, not that Utahime knew for sure, though they exude quality in a way her rusting rentals do not. “Nice! What subject?”
“I’m a choir teacher.”
“Wow! I bet you can sing really well, you have a lovely speaking voice. I’ve been working on my voice, would always love to go singing in the streets to make a few coins someday.”
“Busking?”
Gojo snaps his fingers. “Right, busking. Any instruments?”
“I play the shamisen.”
He leans closer to scrutinize her face again. “So, do you still live in Japan or have you emigrated?”
Utahime grips the chair bar. “How did you know? I live there. Kyoto.”
“Well I’m Japanese too. Just don’t look it. I’m from Tokyo, sort of.”
And with pale hair and near-blue eyes, it was the last ethnicity Utahime would have guessed, but it made sense if she spent more than two seconds thinking. His family name was ‘Gojo’ after all, and it wasn’t rare, just uncommon. And she thought she had heard the name ‘Satoru’. Utahime tried to peek at his name badge, but the angle, and chair lift bar, made it hard to see.
“You live here now?” She asks at last, leaning back into the chair, prioritizing stability over curiosity.
“I move around. Being a ski instructor isn’t the highest paying gig, but it keeps me free. I can chase fresh powder, and I love teaching.”
Utahime understood. “It is nice, being free,” she echoes.
He rambles on about the resort, dropping a number of ski terms that she isn’t sure she follows. Though she doesn’t know much about him, she can tell Gojo doesn’t have a proclivity for silence. Despite this, he was happy enough to let her be.
The lift reaches the end of its arduous passage, and with it Gojo angles his skis up to catch the mound of snow at the end. Utahime mimics his actions.
“Well, here we go. We are going to the left.”
Utahime trails after him, the tracks of his skis as he skates on the slight uphill are broad and cut into the snow—she doesn’t know how to do that, but she tries. Her ski tips catch on the snow and she stumbles. Gojo seemed to have a sixth sense; though meters ahead, turning at her stumble, watching until Utahime had slid into position next to him.
It’s a slope, most certainly…sloped. Flatter than the ones Shoko and Mei Mei took her on but a slope nonetheless, and covered in the distinct rake pattern of groomed snow.
“You’re going to go first. I’m just going to watch you for a bit.”
And so Utahime skies, with unrefined technique—she can feel it in the way her calves fight the very path her skis cut through the snow—but she was not going to give up, not here, damn it.
Gojo follows with the nonchalance of an expert, skis so close together it’s like they were all but one, not even using his poles, making it down to where Utahime stood at the base of the bunny slope.
“Not bad!” Gojo grins. “I think I have some ideas, so why don’t we go up to the top of some proper slopes and I can show you some technique?” He frowns a bit. “Well, it is only an hour, so I don’t know if we have time for everything to be drilled right, but whatever I can get into your brain is my goal.”
“I just don’t want to fall on my face anymore. I’ll take what I can get.”
“Good.”
There was a gleam in Gojo’s eyes, evil on the faces of others, but it was refreshing (in a way). It was a challenge, if Utahime knew one. She didn’t want to be coddled.
“Besides, having fun is what really matters. Follow me.”
The second thing Utahime learns, before any tricks, is that this Gojo guy really loves demonstrations without explanations. Every move she does is a shoddy impression of his, even as he slowly adds more explanation after dropping terms like “angulation” or “upper-body separation” or “inclination”.
(The first is that he must be the most elegant skier she’s ever seen, because he floats as if there is no resistance between the ground and his body. His turns must make perfectly symmetric paths.)
“Did you study physics in school, Gojo?”
His head jerks at Utahime’s question. “How…?”
(It’s the first time, in her very brief time knowing him, that Utahime thinks she’s caught him speechless.)
“You just use a lot of physics explanations in your descriptions. Ah, it isn’t that it’s hard to follow or anything, just like a mannerism, I suppose.”
“My old job required a lot of physics knowledge. I guess it just slips through from time to time.”
He’s talking about something else now, but the question crosses her mind later, along with a small realization. It would be nice to know why a person like him chooses to become a ski instructor.
He’s pointing in a direction, but the side of the trail slopes off and Utahime finds herself rolling back. Gojo turns but it’s too late, and her skis are caught in the bank of a small pine nestled against the edge.
“Oh, make sure not to ski into trees. Usually I don’t have to clarify this for my students.”
“You idiot! I wouldn’t have if I didn’t get stuck.” The words were out in Japanese before she could contain herself.
Gojo pauses. His eyes widen before his face twitches into a smile. “Am I really the idiot if you’re the one who tripped over their skis?” he retorts. His pronunciation is flawless.
“Sorry, I got….flustered.”
Gojo’s smile is broad and shameless. He still side steps until he’s offering a hand. Utahime falters for a moment before taking the hand to pull herself up.
He winks once. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Utahime flushes red.
(The rest of the lesson continues in Japanese. When Utahime asks if it’s really necessary, Gojo falters. It’s been a long time since he’s spoken to anyone but his best friend in Japanese, he explains. She makes no further comment.)
The lesson is over before she realizes, and Utahime wonders how an hour can pass so quickly. Despite her best efforts, she’s had fun. Somewhere in there, Gojo has managed to distract her from the steepness of the slope with jokes and enough pointers to make her feel like she can actually do it?
“It’s a shame we only had one hour! You’ve improved so much. If you make it down to base camp over there, we’ll have to wrap it up.”
Gojo leads, yet again, snaking down the slope so fast, Utahime wonders for a second if he’s forgotten about her. But what she lacks in speed, Utahime realizes she makes up doubly in stability.
At the base, Gojo says nothing else.
“So, how was it?” The attendant who had pointed her to Gojo is back, having her sign a receipt.
Utahime gnaws at her lip. “He was very helpful.”
Gojo smiles before waving with a pole from where he stands a few meters away. “That is good to hear. I better see you on some more of those blacks, otherwise I’ll chase you down!”
“Do you want me to die?” She quips back. What they had just done was a black diamond?
Gojo’s laughter is the last sound she hears as he skates to the tent.
“I really thought you two were going to hit it off without problems, but it seems like Satoru has managed to piss off another one of his pretty students,” the attendant sighs. “I’m Suguru. I promise we aren’t all as impossible to deal with.”
It takes a moment before Utahime realizes the attendant—no, Suguru—was also talking in Japanese. “You’re Japanese too!”
Suguru nods. “Yeah. If Satoru is too much for you, I also teach a few privates. We’ve been skiing for the same amount of time.”
“No, it’s quite alright.” Realizing that her rejection might have been a little rude, Utahime rushes to elaborate. “I’m sure you’re a lovely instructor, but it’s just, I don’t know when I’ll be back, or anything.”
“It’s the eyes, isn’t it?” Suguru winks at her. “Don’t worry, I would never tell. His ego is massive enough as is. Well, later, Utahime.”
(He has a wife. Or a girlfriend. Utahime isn’t sure of it but well-kept men like Gojo Satoru are hardly ever single. Not that she was interested of course, that would be ridiculous.)
She hopes the online form will assign her to a random instructor, or at the very least, they’ve forgotten about who she is and so she’s the only one stressing. Besides, how was she to know she would be back within the same month, after Shoko and Mei Mei had seen how quickly she’d improved and dropped the money on a full-day private lesson for her? Flying here wasn’t cheap, but it was vacation for her students, so denying Shoko would be hard.
“Oh, Utahime?” Gojo asked, but from the confidence with which he speaks, Utahime knew it was less of a question so much an affirmation.
“Yes. Thank you for having me again.”
“No, of course. It’s my pleasure.” He’s smiling, polite and vague.
“Well, if you’re going to teach me again, I was wondering if you could clarify some of the things we covered in the last lesson.”
Gojo frowns. “Well, as long as you can describe the basis of the tip. I’ve forgotten,” he taps his beanie, “a good amount of what we talked about.”
It stings a little, but Utahime understands. Sometimes the questions she got from students were monotonous, and while her students never failed to remember when she’d granted them extensions, somehow the events would blur together in her mind.
“Only the skiing stuff, don’t worry.” Gojo switches to Japanese. “I remember everything else about you.”
(Utahime ignores the way her heart skips a beat.)
“So, how long are you here for this time?”
He’s leading her to a patch of snow peppered with pine trees that are dusted white from the weekend’s storm.
“Three days.” Utahime trails off. There was no groomed trail from a cursory inspection. “Today’s the first day.”
Gojo realizes she’s lost focus on the conversation, and turns to inspect the terrain. “Just some tree skiing. It’s my favorite, so I want you to try it out. I know I usually demonstrate but this time I am going to actually explain how to do it properly.”
Gojo’s first tip is to always have a friend. It can be dangerous to go alone, and with Utahime’s tendencies to ski into trees (she calls him a bastard and he laughs), he doubly encourages it.
(I’m your buddy, he tells Utahime. Don’t read into it, she tells herself.)
Slow down on fresh powder. Follow tracks to gain speed.
(It’s so quiet between the trees. It’s beautiful. It’s lovely.)
Avoid tree wells.
(He fishes her out of the pile of snow with both arms. Once Utahime is upright, he brushes some snow off her cheek and Utahime has to pretend that it’s just the cold of the snow making her face feel hot.)
They rejoin a trail among the trees, and Utahime smiles at him. “I liked that a lot.”
At the same time Gojo says, “Sorry, that was purely self-indulgent.”
He does not elaborate.
The trail he takes her to is familiar. Mei Mei waited for her at the bottom, but after fifteen minutes, Utahime had felt the familiar text tone. Make it down and then go to the lounge. Mei Mei wasn’t one to waste time. It was fine, truly, but it had also been why Utahime had never really gotten along with the woman.
“You good?”
“Yeah. Please don’t go ahead this time.”
Gojo stares at her. After a while he nods. He flashes a warm smile before pointing at the base of the slope.
That was right—even if it was steep, she had to focus on her target. Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid—
She’d fallen several times on this one.
—Utahime does not fall.
“Have you ever skied backwards?”
Utahime was under the impression that skiing was a forward-facing activity, but she shakes her head. She hadn’t, but if she was going to learn, Gojo was probably the guy.
He narrates the process first this time, shifting up the bank of a turn before sliding backwards into the snow. It wasn’t a question anymore (Gojo’s expertise) but Utahime is still impressed by the ease with which he moves, cutting slow turns into the slope.
“When do you even need to do this?” She asks, trailing after him.
It’s a little odd, staring directly into his eyes. She should probably pay more attention to the small children who dart by, but she trusts Gojo. If there’s danger, he would have told her to be more observant. Probably.
Gojo laughs. “Do you ever need to do anything? It’s good for tricks and the Olympics, but mostly it’s just fun. Lessons don’t have to be drills nonstop. I want you to fall in love.”
“Excuse me?”
“Skiing. You hated it, didn’t you? I want you to enjoy yourself.”
The sun sits low in the sky, even through the clouds that make it feel dark for what must only be the late afternoon. Gojo makes idle chatter, but slowly and surely he is leading her back to base camp. It’s subtle, but he’s looking at the clock. She notices, because she is too.
They’ve reached. He pulls his goggles up, and Utahime is trapped again.
Gojo hesitates for a moment. “Right, well. I’d love to do another lesson with you, if you’re back this season.” At Utahime’s silence, he continues. “Have a fun rest of your trip.”
There was a lot she wanted to say to him. It may have only been a few hours of your time, but you helped me overcome so much.
“Thank you. Have a nice rest of your day.”
There’s a moment and Gojo looks at her skis. “Have fun in Kyoto.”
Utahime turns, shuffling back to the lodge to find Shoko and the rest. She wants to speak, but when she turns, Gojo is already skating away.
He’s fast, and it’s all she has to impress in her memory. The back of a head fading into the distance.
Her skis are stuck in the snowbank and it’s a bitter reminder. She was his student, what was there even to say? She had paid for his time, and he had provided his services.
Utahime skis better the next day, and she thinks sometimes she spots a mass of white hair in the crowds for the chair lifts, but it’s gone before she can ascertain the truth. Perhaps it was enough, to show her skill, and to know who to credit.
(Still, there was something unfortunate about it. A type of love left unrealized not because the circumstances denied it, but because the participant could not speak it into existence. A consequence of timing, of social propriety, of the anonymity between strangers.
That sometimes we don’t get to know how much we have touched another person, and in that lies another sort of shame.
Sometimes all it takes is the grace of a stranger to regain our footing. They may never know it.)
Iori Utahime raises her pencil and starts writing. There was only one way this song could start.
I think about you when it snows
Perhaps her heart will reach him.
“Yo, Satoru. I think you’re going to like this.”
There’s a YouTube video on Suguru’s screen, and a silken voice drifting across their apartment from the rackety computer speaker. Suguru doesn’t offer any more explanation.
Satoru’s eyes never lie.
It’s her.
He grabs the base of the laptop, pushing Suguru away.
She’s in her element, graceful and elegant. Thick black hair drapes over her shoulders, and she’s wearing a black bow to tie some of it back from her face.
She has bangs, and a thin scar that races up the side of her face. There so much, Satoru realizes, so many things he hadn’t noticed when she stood in front of him.
Her skin had been soft, under a gloved touch. But he had assumed she wanted nothing to do with him. Still, Satoru couldn’t help but get the feeling that perhaps—
Softer still are doe eyes that gaze into the camera. She smiles abruptly (there’s a trace of embarrassment in that look) and the video clicks to an end.
.
That perhaps—
.
“Satoru, have you ever thought of going home?”