Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shoma checks his Line for what feels like the billionth time, tapping his foot impatiently against the side of the couch and earning a whine from Emma, who’s dozing off in his lap. He's waiting for Stéphane to tell him he’s arrived in Nagoya. Shoma hasn't seen him since the training camp in Champéry at the end of April, but finally Stéphane is back in Japan again. This year Fantasy on Ice makes a stop in Nagoya, giving Shoma the perfect excuse to ask Stéphane to come and check on his progress before he moves on to his next show in Kobe.

The original plan was to meet directly at the Chukyo rink in the morning so they could go through the new short program, but Stéphane has been held back by a last-minute meeting – ISU technical committee something something, Shoma hadn’t paid too much attention – and now he’s several hours late. Shoma, who is not used to missing his morning practice, feels like a ball of pent-up energy. Not even trashing his opponents at his latest gaming obsession helps. 

His phone chimes with a new message from Hama-san, and he quickly scans through the chat.

just met Stéphane at shinkansen station   11:35

we’re coming to pick you and then go to the rink  11:35

I already told your mother, no worries   11:35

His mother emerges from the kitchen, phone in hand, and they exchange a slightly panicked look.

“I’ll prepare some tea and okashi. You clean up here, Shoma, make it look less like a tornado just hit.”

Normally Shoma would complain – the dogs are just going to make a mess again five minutes later, mom! – but Stéphane is coming, and his mouth curls up in an involuntary smile. Stéphane is coming, and everything in the world is good again.

Half an hour later there’s a knock at the door and Hama-san and Demi-san come in, followed by a familiar figure.

“Hello, Shoma,” Stéphane says with that smile Shoma has missed so much.

“Stéphane!” Shoma cries, and launches himself into Stéphane’s waiting arms, followed by an army of equally excited poodles. Demi-san snickers and stage-whispers something to Hama-san about puppies and owner resembling each other that makes Shoma twist around into Stéphane’s hug to scowl at them. He’s thankful they spoke in Japanese, at least.

Drawn out by the commotion, Itsuki emerges from his room too. “Hi Stéphane! How are you?” he says with a grin. “I hope you’re not too tired, because my big bro is absolutely going to drag you to the rink right this minute. He was going stir crazy the whole morning.”

"Ah, right," Stéphane says, "I'm so sorry I missed your practice, Shoma."

Shoma shakes his head. "It's ok! Meeting was long?"

Stéphane rolls his eyes. "Yeah, the meeting was loooong,” he says, with a drawn out ‘o’ that makes Shoma chuckle. “And it started at four am. Those people don’t understand how timezones work.”

"Happy you made it," Itsuki says. "Shoma has way too much energy today. It's unnatural."

“You should confess to Stéphane you’ve been neglecting your off-ice training,” his manager chimes in, in English. Itsuki snickers and Shoma gives both a dirty look. 

“Practice now?” Shoma says hopefully, with a little impatient tug at Stéphane’s coat sleeve, and he’s rewarded with another smile.

“Can’t wait,” Stéphane says, with a genuine enthusiasm in his voice that makes Shoma feel warm and glowy all over.

Stéphane is here, and everything in the world is good again.

—

They start with warm-up laps around the rink, but soon Shoma picks up speed, leaving Stéphane behind, and launches himself into an axel. It’s just a double, but predictably Stéphane calls out, “Shoma! Proper warm-up, please!”

Shoma grins. He loves to be back on the ice with Stéphane.

The plan is to do run-throughs of the new short program Stéphane has choreographed for him. Shoma had liked it since the first time Stéphane skated out the program in front of him, half-executing and half-explaining the layout of elements and transitions. It feels very Stéphane in the way elements are woven into the fabric of the song, highlighting dynamics and accents while maintaining a seamless fluidity throughout. There is also a maturity to the program that reminds Shoma of Stéphane’s skating, and that he feels he’s finally getting closer to attaining himself. Shoma doesn’t understand everything that goes into Stéphane’s choreographic choices, but he does know that Stéphane likes to weave emotions into his programs as much as he does movements. He wonders if Gravity is a reflection of how Stéphane sees him. Sometimes he catches Stéphane looking at him with a wondering, pensive expression on his face, like he’s found out something new about Shoma which he can’t quite pinpoint.

What do you see when you look at me?  Shoma wants to ask, but he’s afraid of the answer. At the same time, he’s not the type to dwell too much on what ifs. He knows he needs to focus on what’s right in front of him, so he quashes his uncertainty under countless hours of practice, to make sure that by the start of the season the program that now doesn’t feel his own yet will start to fit him, like the careful breaking in of a new pair of boots. And he hopes he will understand Stéphane’s feelings in the process. Maybe even his own.

“The spins look good, but the timing of the first jump needs some improvement,” Stéphane says, skating over to Shoma. “It should take off and land more precisely on the musical accents.”

At Shoma’s blank stare, Stéphane smiles. “When the music gets big. Like this,” he explains, waving a finger like a conductor’s baton to stress the important bits. “A change of direction here” - he places a hand on Shoma’s hip to gently pull him into the turn – “aaand into the preparation for the jump” – he concludes, giving him a little push. Shoma ends up double-footing the jump, and the timing is still off, but now he understands what Stéphane means. It is that easy, sometimes, and Shoma wouldn’t change it for anything.

“I think it’s enough for today,” Stéphane says, one hour later.

“I can do more,” Shoma says in protest, using his sleeve to wipe sweat off his face. He’s been doing almost double this amount of practice every day, although he knows it’s not something Stéphane would approve of. And Stéphane of course knows he knows, because he sighs like only those intimately familiar with Shoma’s specific brand of stubbornness do.

“No. At least not when I’m with you. I’m going to make sure you don’t run yourself ragged before the season even starts,” he says sternly. He grabs Shoma’s hand and pulls him towards the boards. Shoma follows meekly, turning his palm upwards to curl his fingers around Stéphane’s hand. He can feel his warmth even through the glove, solid and reassuring, and Shoma’s heart aches a little when they reach the exit and he has to let go.

---

They grab a quick lunch at a café close to the rink and then go back to Shoma’s house, where they’re greeted again by an onslaught of overexcited poodles. Shoma finally gets to properly introduce Stéphane to Toro, who seems to fall in love with Stéphane at first touch. Stéphane is just that kind of person, universally beloved by children and animals and basically everyone else, Shoma included. He looks at a blissed-out Toro and wishes he could put his head in Stéphane’s lap too, and feel those fingers thread through his hair until he falls asleep.

He’s apparently not the only one who’s tired, however. Stéphane hides a yawn behind his hand, and with a stab of guilt, Shoma remembers that Stéphane’s been up since early morning.

“Stéphane tired. Talk more later?” He says looking at Hama-san, who nods.

Stéphane smiles and waves his hand in a vague gesture of protest, but he does look weary, and there are circles under his eyes that usually aren't there.

Shoma gently removes Toro from Stéphane’s lap and takes her in his arms. “Stéphane take nap too?”

“Yeah, I think the jetlag is still affecting me. In the past I didn't feel so tired when coming to Japan, but I guess I’m getting old. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the next Grand Prix series with you, Koshiro, and Deniss in the circuit.”

Shoma frowns. He doesn’t like it when Stéphane calls himself old. “Not old. Just tired after flight. I sleep all the time too.”

Stéphane smiles at Shoma and ruffles his hair.

“You’re right. I should go back to the hotel and get some rest. We can catch up tomorrow?”

“Stéphane can stay here. We have guestroom. Later we go out, eat together.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the stairs, looking at his manager for help.

“Hama-san, can you tell Stéphane that he can stay here and take a rest? Mom cleaned up the guestroom just in case. The yakiniku restaurant is much closer to here than to his hotel.”

His manager nods and translates back to Stéphane, who lights up and nods.

“Thank you for the hospitality, I really appreciate it,” he says, bowing to Shoma's mom – who’s been serving tea and fussing over Stéphane while trying to stay out of the video Itsuki is filming for the youtube channel – and then, jokingly, to Shoma himself.

Shoma gives him a quick tour of the house, Toro still in his arms, pointing to the bathroom and finally the guestroom. Having Stéphane in his house makes him feel strangely giddy. Stéphane had been there once before, to talk to his parents after that first Japanese nationals together, but it had been a brief and rather businesslike visit. This time Stéphane is in Shoma’s private sphere, which only the people closest to him have access to. It probably isn’t that much of a big deal for Stéphane – who has students and friends over at his place all the time – but it is for Shoma. He feels like they've grown closer, and often catches himself wishing that Stéphane would see him less like a student and more like a... what? A fellow skater? An adult?  A friend?

“What is it?” Stéphane asks, giving him a puzzled glance, and Shoma realizes he’s standing in the middle of the hallway, looking at Stéphane with what is probably a spaced-out expression.

He shakes his head quickly. “Nothing. Just happy Stéphane is here.”

Stéphane smiles at him again, in that kind, gentle way of his that never fails to make Shoma’s heart all fluttery. “I am happy to be here too. You have a lovely family, Shoma.”

Shoma looks up at him, and their eyes meet. Without thinking, he takes a step forward, then another, right into Stéphane’s personal space, and wraps his arms around his waist. Shoma isn't usually the one initiating displays of affection between them – outside of competitions, that is – but he just can’t stop himself. He leans his forehead against Stéphane’s chest, breathing in the familiar smell of his cologne. Stéphane hesitates for a fraction of a second before wrapping his arms around Shoma to pull him closer and resting his cheek on top of Shoma’s head.

“I missed you,” Stéphane says quietly into Shoma’s hair, and for a long, suspended moment, everything feels perfect.

“Here’s a clean towel for Stéphane… oh whoops, sorry!” Itsuki’s surprised voice cuts into the silence, breaking the spell. Shoma abruptly lets go, cheeks flaming. Luckily Stéphane doesn't seem fazed, and just accepts the proffered towel with a gracious smile and a murmured thank you before retiring to his room.

Shoma just stands there, staring at the closed door.

“Do I want to know?” Itsuki says after a long pause, his tone a cross between strained and resigned. 

Shoma turns around to face his brother. “There is nothing to know!” he replies in an irritated whisper. “We hug all the time!”

Itsuki rolls his eyes. “He hugs you all the time because he’s Stéphane. You usually don’t even hug me.”

“Shut up,” Shoma says, feeling his face flush even redder. He stomps over to his room and Emma and Toro follow him inside, hopping on the bed with identical wagging tails and hopeful expressions. He lets himself fall face-first onto the bed next to them, not even protesting when Emma sits on his head and starts franctically licking the side of his face. 

His heart is hammering in his chest. The physical memory of the hug lingers on his skin, making him feel giddy and confused and embarrassed all at once. He can’t even pinpoint what he’s feeling, but he just knows that it's because of Stéphane.

---

Stéphane re-emerges into the Uno family living room a couple of hours later, looking considerably more fresh-faced than before, and devastatingly handsome as usual. Shoma has dragged himself back to the couch and is playing a game on his phone, buried under a pile of happy puppies.

“Hi,” Stéphane greets.

“Hi,” Shoma replies. His character dies on screen, almost as if on cue. “Sleep well?”

Stéphane sits down by the coffee table and picks Toro up again, putting her in his lap. “Wonderful, thank you. Any plans for dinner? I think you mentioned yakiniku before, and I'm definitely hungry.”

Shoma rolls over, moving Emma gently out of the way, and reaches for his phone to check Hama-san's messages. “Soon. Yakiniku restaurant is really good. And owner… really happy Stéphane comes.”

“I guess the owner really is a fan, uh?” Stéphane whispers to Shoma later that night, after he's presented with a celebratory cake and a plate decorated with Stéphane’s own portrait. Shoma is always touched by these presents, even though he has a hard time accepting them without getting embarrassed. Stéphane, however, seems genuinely delighted, and, as Shoma is starting to realize, what makes Stéphane happy makes him happy too.

“Told you,” Shoma said, passing him a slice of cake. “Famous Stéphane.”

“Also thanks to World Champion Shoma Uno, no doubt,” Stéphane replies fondly, bumping his fist against Shoma’s shoulder. They’re having a round of beers to celebrate Stéphane’s arrival, and he feels tipsy and relaxed enough to lean against Stéphane’s side a little closer than he normally would. Stéphane’s hand is resting on his thigh, nothing more than a casual, feather-light touch, but Shoma swears he can feel every single pressure point like it’s being seared directly into his skin.

Stéphane carves off a forkful of cake and pops it into his mouth with a little sound of appreciation that does things to Shoma. He gets cream on his lower lip, and Shoma watches, entranced, as the tip of Stéphane’s tongue darts out to lick it off. He feels the movement like a hot drag deep in his belly, and has to look away before he does something crazy like trying to find out for himself how cream and strawberries taste on Stéphane’s lips.

That in itself is a revelation, which leaves Shoma too stunned to properly process what he’s feeling.

The dinner ends way too early for Shoma's liking. He wants to spend more time with Stéphane, talk to him, be with him. The superficial conversation around the dinner table is not enough, and Stéphane’s casual touch is driving him crazy. It’s not as if he and Stéphane can have long, deep conversations, but they have their own ways to communicate, which usually involve being on the ice. That always makes things easier.

"Stéphane, want to skate again? Still early," Shoma blurts out when they make their way out of the restaurant, after Stéphane has dutifully signed the giant poster with Shoma's face that the owner has on display. That had been an embarrassing moment as well, but Stéphane is so good-natured about this kind of thing that Shoma doesn’t mind too much.

“You already practiced enough for today,” Stéphane says with a frown.

“Not practice. Just fun,” Shoma replies.

"Shoma! Stéphane must be tired," his manager says, in English.

"Actually, after the nap I took earlier I feel full of energy,” Stéphane replies. “In Switzerland I would be on the ice with my students around this time, and I think my body misses it.”

Shoma understands what he means. His own training routine is so much a part of him, at this point, that missing it always makes him feel cross and uncomfortable. He also sees an opportunity, so he seizes it with both hands.

“Stéphane can practice. I just watch,” he says, angling an hopeful look at Stéphane.

Stéphane laughs and nods. “I would like that,” he says to Shoma’s manager. “If it’s not too much trouble. I have my skates in the luggage in the car. I’m not going to get any real practice done after eating so much, but just being on the ice sounds good.”

"Well, in that case... I will call the rink and ask them to keep it open for us," Hama-san says, casting a doubtful glance in their direction. Shoma and Stéphane both give him a thumbs up, in almost perfect unison, and the manager sighs.

"You should take Itsuki and Demi-san home," Shoma says. "We can go by taxi."

"Are you sure? I can take you with the car, and Demi-san should be there,” Hama-san replies, looking at the trainer for confirmation.

Shoma most definitely does not want his whole entourage to come along, but doesn’t know what to say to dissuade them. He cannot just say he wants to be alone with Stéphane – he’s never really alone with Stéphane during practice, and the realization suddenly annoys him.

Somewhat unexpectedly, Itsuki comes to his aid.

"I'm actually kind of tired, Hama-san, and I need to finish writing an assignment for school. It's just going to be an informal practice session, right?" Itsuki says, giving Shoma a meaningful glance, and Shoma hastily nods.

"Yes, nothing serious. No jumps. And after that I'll send Stéphane back to his hotel."

"All good?" Stéphane asks, lost in the flow of Japanese conversation.

"Yes," Shoma says. "We go to rink now. Ok?"

"Tres bien," Stéphane replies with a smile. "Thank you, Shoma."

Shoma beams back, and somewhere on his left Itsuki makes a faint sound that's halfway between a giggle and a snort. Shoma very carefully avoids meeting his brother's eyes, but gives him a shove when no one else is looking.

---

When they arrive at the rink, it's mercifully empty – Shoma usually has his training sessions booked in advance so he can practice by himself, but this one is outside his usual schedule, and the other skaters from Chukyo University skating club often practice after class until late at night.

He and Stéphane skate lazy warm-up laps around the rink, and this time Shoma lets himself savor the pleasure of Stéphane’s presence. Everything is silent save for the sound of their skates crackling through the ice like static, exactly how Shoma likes it. He enjoys quiet places and the feeling of calm that washes over him when he’s alone on a pristine stretch of ice.

"Do you want to see my new show program?" Stéphane asks, skating backward so he can look at Shoma. His eyes are bright with anticipation, and Shoma realizes that Stéphane has been looking forward to this maybe as much as Shoma has. Stéphane is a born artist and performer, and, unlike Shoma, he adores to be in front of an audience, even when the audience is just one.

And maybe, Shoma thinks - hopes - Stéphane wants to skate in front of him, because he knows that Shoma can appreciate the nuances of his programs better than most people would.

"Yes, please!" he says, and he’s rewarded with another of those dazzling smiles. Stéphane connects his phone to the rink's bluetooth sound system, takes off his coat, and drapes it across the boards.

"Don't laugh at your poor old coach, ok?" Stéphane says with a wink that is positively flirtatious, and before Shoma can open his mouth to protest – or to catch his breath – Stéphane is skating towards the center of the rink.

It's a reversal of their usual positions – Shoma by the boards and Stéphane on the ice, stilling into his starting pose. The song starts playing overhead, vocals without music echoing in the empty rink.

Stéphane starts to move, and Shoma holds his breath. He hasn’t seen one of Stéphane’s show pieces in a long time, and is suddenly reminded of their morning practice. It’s easier now to see his own performance through the eyes of this man who has the uncanny ability to move like music itself is flowing through his veins. Each movement falls precisely on a musical accent, sharp and effortless at the same time. When Stéphane sheds his coach persona to perform he looks younger, less suave and controlled, more vibrant and raw. That’s when he can express himself without holding back, and he’s not afraid to pour every ounce of emotion he has out on the ice for everyone to see. It's something that Shoma still finds hard to do – to be so open, so vulnerable, to show so much of himself.

He feels that by watching Stéphane skate like this he might be able to understand him better. At the same time, knows he doesn't understand him that much at all. All he knows is the coach, and he realizes he wants to reach out for the man, to make Stéphane want to show Shoma the side of himself that he keeps from his students.

The music fades into silence. Shoma is gripping the boards so tight his knuckles are white, and his heart is thumping painfully in his chest.

"The program needs some final touches, but it's already better compared to the Tokyo shows," Stéphane says, breathless, when he returns to where Shoma is standing. "What do you think, Shoma?"

Shoma breathes in deeply. He doesn't quite trust his voice.

"Shoma…?" Stéphane says softly. Shoma doesn't look up, because he knows that if he does Stéphane will be able to read everything on his face, like he always does.

"Stéphane is amazing," Shoma says quietly, and despite everything his lips curl up in a smile, because Stéphane is amazing.

"Can feel…” he pauses, looking for words that don’t come. “ステファンの演技にすごく感動したよ <Stephane's performance really moved me>…Can feel it… here.”

He puts a hand on his chest, and the other hesitantly reaches over to rest upon Stéphane's heart. He can feel Stéphane’s heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt, an accelerated pulse that matches Shoma's own. There is so much he wants to say, and hates not having the words to do so.

"Stéphane feels the music so deep. Different from Shoma."

I can't be like you, he thinks, but I wish I could explain how you make me feel.

Stéphane covers Shoma's hand with one of his, cradling it to his chest. The other brushes across Shoma’s cheek, sliding down to lift Shoma's chin enough so that their eyes can meet. Stéphane doesn't say anything, just tightens his hold over Shoma's hand a fraction more, and looks straight at him. Something burns behind Stéphane’s gaze, and for an instant, Shoma is sure he’s about to... what?

Then Stéphane looks away, and the spell is broken. When he smiles at Shoma, he looks a little sad.

"My journey has been much longer than yours, Shoma," he says with gentleness, and he's back to being coach Stéphane again. The transformation is seamless yet jarring, and something deep inside Shoma howls and yearns for the man that was looking at him with fire in his eyes just moments before.

“You have your own journey, yes? And you're finding your artistic voice within the limits of competition. I skate just to express what I feel. There's a lot more freedom in that."

And what do you feel? Shoma wants to ask. Stéphane's music is sad, yet there is an undercurrent of hope pervading it. As if he’s been looking for something for a long time and has not yet given up the search for it.

Let me be what you're looking for, he wants to say, but Stéphane pulls away, and he doesn’t have the words, or the courage - to stop him.

---

Shoma calls Stéphane a taxi, and then another one for himself, mumbling something about his home being on the opposite side of Nagoya compared to Stéphane's hotel.

When Shoma gets home, Itsuki is sprawled on the couch, absorbed by something on his phone. It takes him just one look at Shoma, however, to sit up and put the phone aside.

"Everything okay?" he asks, frowning. Then something like comprehension – or possibly intuition – flashes in his eyes. “…Stéphane?”

Shoma shakes his head minutely. "Everything okay. I think. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Itsuki opens his mouth to say something, and Shoma is so not ready to have this conversation.

“I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Itsuki,” he says quickly, and flees to the privacy of his bedroom before Itsuki can grill him for information.

He lies awake in his bed for a long time. He’s never had problems sleeping, but the memory of how Stéphane looked at him won’t leave him alone. He holds his right hand to his chest and cradles it in his left, the same way Stéphane had held it, and finally falls asleep imagining it’s Stéphane’s hand stroking soothing circles across his skin.

Chapter Text

Stéphane  looks at Nagoya’s landscape through the tall windows of the hotel lounge, and then at his reflection in the dark glass. Tomorrow is the last day of Fantasy on Ice in Nagoya, and then it’s Kobe. He’s missed touring with ice shows, the high of skating in front of an audience, the easy camaraderie he has with people he considers almost like family.

It’s almost midnight, and everyone but he and Johnny has already gone back to their rooms. The two of them are sitting at a corner table, nursing the last in a long series of increasingly colourful cocktails and fighting exhaustion so they can catch up with each other’s lives. Stéphane’s had too much to drink, the queasiness in his stomach a stark reminder he’s not in his twenties anymore, but gossiping with Johnny always brings him back to the good old times.

Johnny has unearthed some pictures of an Olympics afterparty in Vancouver from god knows where, and they’ve spent the last twenty minutes cackling madly at everyone’s awful outfits and ridiculous expressions. Stéphane  can see it now; how painfully young and naïve he'd still been back then. Twenty-five years old, almost the same age Shoma is now. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Oh my god, do you remember this?!” Johnny says, slapping his arm a little too hard. Johnny’s drunk too, and it reminds Stéphane of twelve years before, when the two of them had gotten completely smashed to commiserate over their disappointing results in Vancouver. Stéphane still remembers waking up the morning after with a pounding headache and a naked, furious-looking Johnny sitting on the bed and scrolling through sports newsfeeds muttering that fucking slore under his breath. The memory still makes him smile fondly.

"Do you ever regret not going after someone?" Stéphane asks on impulse. "Back when we were still competing?"

Johnny scrunches his forehead, pondering the question. “Like what, another skater? I always did wish that Brian wasn’t so aggressively heterosexual," he grins, all teeth, and Stéphane huffs out a laugh.

"A lot of us did," he replies. "But I mean, seriously."

Johnny sobers up a little, his expression growing distant.

"Yeah. Kinda. You know who. But in the end, it wouldn't have mattered anyways. He was so deep into the closet I’m surprised he didn’t end up in fucking Narnia. Except he wouldn’t have had enough imagination for that. The USFS' great hetero hope,” he spits out, with enough venom to make Stéphane wince. Not forgiven nor forgotten, then. So typically Johnny. He’s happy his own heartbreaks have been comparatively tame and drama-free, and he’s always used skating as a way to process his feelings and turn them into something he loves.

"Oh well," Johnny says, bringing him back to the present. "How does that song of yours go? Today you're young, too soon you're old? Life goes by and you move on. Speaking of which, why don’t we move on to my room so we can continue this conversation in private?" he asks coyly, looking up at Stéphane from under his long lashes with consummate skill, while one hand slides up his thigh under the table. "For old time's sake?"

Johnny has been thinking about Vancouver too, then. Stéphane is almost tempted to say yes. For old time’s sake, indeed. He wants to feel young again. Except that an image flashes in his mind, unbidden, of dark, beautiful eyes looking up at him like Johnny had done, but without coyness, just with an open, straightforward, hopeful expression.

Stéphane pulls his leg away from Johnny's wandering hand.

"I'm flattered, but I am too old for hookups," he says, not unkindly. "I guess I'm at that age where people want to be settled down with someone they love."

Johnny pouts but doesn't seem too offended.

"Oh honey, you're never too old to be a slut, and thanks god for that," he says. "It's just that you've always been a romantic at heart, Brenda."

"Well, no luck on that front," Stéphane comments dryly, because his love life in the past years has been nothing if not underwhelming.

"But there is someone you are in love with, right,” Johnny says, scooting closer and giving him a prying look, and somehow it's not a question.

Stéphane frowns. "No, there isn't… what makes you think so?"

"You've got to be kidding me," Johnny says, eyes widening. "You've got two entire programs full of nothing but pining and heartache, like, seriously."

"My programs are about feeling lost in life and having to face difficult times," Stéphane protests. “I did the choreography during the lockdown, I was pretty depressed at that time.”

Johnny snorts. "Yes, staying positive, yadda yadda," he says, parroting the intro of Stéphane's performance. "Bitch, please."

"It's true!" Stéphane says, a little louder. God, Johnny can be such an annoying little shit when he tries – and also when he doesn’t.

“What about that pretty student of yours? Are the rumors true?”

Stéphane  looks at him, puzzled. “Who? Shoma?”

Johnny tilts his head. “Shoma? Oh, no, not the Japanese one. The blond. Deniss.”

“Johnny, I swear to god,” Stéphane hisses, shocked, and has to physically restrain himself from throttling Johnny. “They are my students,” he says through gritted teeth.

Johnny tuts. “Don’t get your panties all in a bunch. They’re big boys. It’s not illegal,” he says. “I’m jealous, you are getting all the cute ones. I should become a coach too.”

Oh god no, Stéphane  thinks fervently. He loves Johnny – most of the time – but he’s happy he’s not being unleashed upon impressionable young skaters.

He stands up, a little wobbly on his feet. “Anyways, it's late and I need my beauty sleep. I want to get some ice time tomorrow morning before the show. Alone," he adds, because Johnny looks like he's considering following him.

"Aw, you're no fun. Nothing but piii~ning!" Johnny sing-songs, loud enough to resonate across the lounge, and Stéphane makes a hasty escape to avoid the dirty looks the other customers are throwing at them.

---

Stéphane  is jittery with nervous energy as he jogs back and forth in the narrow backstage corridor, trying to stay warm while he waits for his turn to perform. He shivers in his mesh top, and it’s just partly because of the cold. He’s excited to perform again, and at the same time he’s a mess of nerves.

Getting back in front of an audience after two years has been tougher than he could’ve ever imagined. He’s acutely aware of all the small ways in which his body is not moving the ways it used to, of the new aches and pains, of the growing anxiety of being unable to meet expectations.

And now Johnny’s words keep coming back to hound him, superimposed with the memory of the night at the empty rink in front of Shoma. Shoma, watching him with rapt attention and soft eyes; Shoma, reaching out with an unspoken question on his lips. Stéphane had wanted to kiss those lips so badly, to bite down the pretty line of his jaw. He knows that if Shoma had been able to ask, he would have been unable to say no.

How despicable, he thinks, guilt washing over him. He’s a bad coach, and not even Shoma’s medals can disprove that. As if the rumors about him and Deniss hadn’t been bad enough. He can’t say he isn’t at fault, and with Shoma, he’s having a hard time drawing a line between what is appropriate and what isn’t.

He’s not even sure to what extent Shoma is aware of what he’s doing, if his awkward overtures really mean something or if he’s just missing Stéphane and using him as a proxy to convey his feelings towards skating. But Stéphane is the coach, the authority figure, the older and supposedly wiser one. He should know better than to indulge in something that could potentially destroy both their careers.

He tries to focus on the performance ahead, but his thoughts are splintered into a million pieces. He wants to sublimate the doubt, the uncertainty, the guilt. He’s supposed to improvise, so that’s what he’ll do.

He rips the arm sleeve off and skates into the arena, anticipating the pain with almost perverse pleasure.

After the performance, the medical staff on duty backstage very politely scolds him while she patches up the bleeding scratches on his arm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Deniss asks, perched on a chair next to him.

“About embodying the music,” Stéphane says distractedly. The burn of the jagged ice on his skin hurts like a bitch, but he’s still thinking about Shoma.

---

Stéphane  arrives to the Chukyo rink twenty minutes late for Shoma’s morning practice, thanks to Nagoya’s traffic. When he enters the building Shoma is already on the ice, doing his usual warmup progression from easier to harder jumps.

They have precious little time – Stéphane is leaving later that day for Kobe, and Shoma’s summer is going to be packed with ice shows as well. Their next in-person meeting is planned for August, before the start of Friends on Ice. With other students Stéphane would be worried, but Shoma is so self-driven that he has no trouble practicing even without a coach breathing down his neck. Stéphane constantly impressed by Shoma's dedication to skating and by his constant growth – and misses every second he’s not there to guide and witness it for himself.

Shoma hasn’t seen him yet, so he lingers by the boards a little longer, allowing himself to appreciate the clean lines of Shoma's body and his captivating, utterly unselfconscious beauty.

Shoma loads a triple axel, takes off, and Stéphane can tell it’s off-axis, probably too much to be saved. Miraculously Shoma sticks the landing, but then steps out and ends up ass-first on the ice.

It’s as good a moment as any to make his presence known, so Stéphane steps into the ice, the movement drawing Shoma’s eyes to him.

“Morning. Good practice?” he asks.

Shoma opens his arms wide, as if to say you can see for yourself, and flops down on the ice.

“You can practice the choreo and step sequence, if jumps aren’t working,” Stéphane says, half-chiding and half-comforting. Shoma gives him a long look but pulls himself up without protesting.

He’s practicing Gravity again, and it’s clear, from the way he makes up bits as he goes, that he’s still struggling to remember the choreography in its entirety. And yet Stéphane is captivated by how Shoma is working with and around his choreography, the way he seems to instinctively understand where to hold back the flow of his skating and where to let himself go.

And then there’s something new, the raw, budding sensuality that seems to permeate Shoma’s movements in ways he’s never noticed before. When Shoma grabs the back of his head and then slides his hand down his neck like the caress of a lover, Stéphane feels his mouth go dry.

He's itching to get on the ice with Shoma, guide him through the movements with his hands and body, but he’s afraid of the visceral response Shoma is eliciting in him. It takes all his willpower to observe in silence by the rinkside, letting Shoma go through the steps and make mistakes on his own. He takes mental notes of where to correct him later, but doesn’t attempt to get close.

Shoma keeps stealing glances at him, clearly thrown off by the lack of engagement. He loses his focus and stumbles on a basic sequence of steps, collapsing on the ice once again.

Stéphane claps his hands to draw his attention. “That’s enough for today,” he says. He needs to get the hell away from here.

Shoma skates over to him, chest heaving. The look he shoots at Stéphane from behind his sweat-drenched bangs as he grabs his water bottle and brings it to his mouth is resentful, which somehow makes him look even more attractive. He drinks sloppily, tiny droplets dribbling down the corner of his mouth. It draws Stéphane’s eyes to the flushed red patch on Shoma's jaw, lovely like the skin of a ripe peach, ready to be bitten into.

Shoma stops drinking and looks straight at him, pushing his chin out a little higher, something defiant in his eyes.

Stéphane  clenches his jaw and looks away. Bad coach. Even the air feels charged with tension, so different from the usual laid back atmosphere of their practice.

“Don’t you ever want to take a holiday?” Stéphane asks, blurting out the first thing that comes to his mind just to break both the silence and his wayward train of thoughts. “You haven’t taken a break since Worlds, and you deserve one.”

“Holiday?” Shoma says, tilting his head to the side like he can’t even grasp the concept. It reminds Stéphane of one of his puppies.

“No need. Holiday…never know what to do,” Shoma says with a shrug, and it shouldn’t be so endearing but it is. “Skating is more interesting. And Stéphane?”

Stéphane smiles. “Same. Time on the ice is the only holiday I need. Actually, doing ice shows in Japan is kind of a holiday in itself. I’ve missed that.”

“And being with Shoma…?” Shoma says with a half smile, stealing a glance at Stéphane from under his eyelashes. He’s going for a light tone, but the rising intonation betrays the question beneath.

“I’m having a great time in Nagoya,” Stéphane replies, keeping his voice carefully even.

Shoma makes a hmmm sound, bites his lips, and looks away.

Stéphane is glad when the practice is over – he’s a coward, but he wants to run away from this,  whatever this is. There’s something broken in the awkward dance they’ve been doing – Shoma making a move, Stéphane responding despite his better judgement, then backtracking out of shame. It always ends with Shoma looking confused and hurt. He doesn’t want to lose the relationship they’ve built over the years, the shared laughter, the touches and hugs without added layers of meaning. He feels guilty because he’s the one responsible for this mess. He’s the one who built their relationship out of hugs and smiles and little gestures of affection.

It would be easy to say that it's just the way he is with everyone, but if he has to be honest with himself, he can’t help doing it because it's Shoma. Maybe there have always been layers of meaning to their relationship, and he's just been too blind or too afraid to acknowledge what they were changing into.

“I’ll see you in August,” Stéphane says, after Shoma has packed his training gear. His taxi is waiting. Maybe a longer separation will do both of them good. “Take care and keep me updated. I’ll watch all the practice videos that Demi-san sends me. We can chat on zoom, ok?”

Shoma nods. His expression betrays nothing, but his body language is clear in the way he’s leaning on the balls of his feet toward Stéphane. Stéphane can’t bring himself to disappoint Shoma that much – he’s already been disappointing enough, he suspects – so he envelops him in the briefest hug he can manage.

It’s meant to be quick, but Shoma grabs his arm before Stéphane can pull away, right where he injured himself the night before. Stéphane hisses in pain and Shoma lets go, a sudden look of alarm on his face.

“Stéphane? Hurt?”

Stéphane thinks about the burning slide of ice against his naked skin, and feels that this is no different. Maybe he’s just a glutton for punishment.

“Not so badly. I did something stupid during yesterday’s show,” he says with a self-deprecating smile.

“Can ask… Demi san?” Shoma says. He looks concerned, eyes wide as he looks up at Stéphane.

“No, no. It’s nothing serious. Just the skin, you know? I did this ––” he mimics the gesture of going down hard on his arm for a slide on the ice, and Shoma winces.

“Why? Of course get hurt,” Shoma says disapprovingly. Stéphane has asked himself the same thing, but at least he has an excuse ready.

“It’s part of my performance,” he replies. “I usually wear an arm sleeve, but my choreographer challenged me to improvise a different part of the program each time. This time I decided not to use the arm sleeve... to feel the pain of the song as physical pain.”

“Crazy Stéphane,” Shoma grumbles, “always say Shoma work too hard. Stéphane same. Also like drama too much.”

Stéphane laughs, because the analysis is spot on.

“The drama part is probably right. But your hard work is on another level, mon cher,” Stéphane  says with affection, and can’t resist ruffling Shoma’s hair. Shoma scowls and pulls away.

“Not kid,” he says, eyes flashing. Ouch.

“I know you’re not a kid,” Stéphane says gently. Shoma gives him a level look, but Stéphane has learned to read him well enough that he knows he’s annoyed. Not angry – there’s a whole another Shoma micro-expression for that – but definitely annoyed.

A quick glance at his watch tells him he needs to leave if he wants to catch his shinkansen on time.

“Time to go?” Shoma says, following the direction of his gaze. Stéphane nods.

“Stéphane take care. Enjoy Japan and ice shows.”

There’s something lonely and wistful in Shoma’s gaze when he says that, and it reminds Stéphane of when Shoma first came to him, three years before. And god, Stéphane can’t do this. He’d move mountains not to see Shoma looking like that again.

“I will miss you, Shoma,” he says with sincerity, and the feeling must come through because Shoma suddenly looks a little less dejected.

“Miss Stéphane too,” Shoma replies, and leans in. Stéphane opens his arms for another hug, but Shoma closes in and kisses his cheek instead. He’s so small that he has to stand on tiptoe, and automatically Stéphane wraps his hand around his waist to steady him. Shoma’s lips are cold and chapped against his cheek, but so, so sweet.

Shoma leans back a little, at the same time as Stéphane – whose instinct in these situations is to expect a kiss on the other cheek – turns his face the other way. Shoma’s lips brush against his, just the barest of touches, and it’s entirely accidental but Stéphane feels it all the way down his spine and in the space behind his ribcage.

He chuckles nervously and lets Shoma go. Shoma stares at him, eyes wide.

“I guess this is my cue to go, yes? Taxi’s waiting,” he says. Shoma nods wordlessly, still looking vaguely stunned. With a parting squeeze at Shoma’s arm Stéphane makes his retreat, trying to look like a dignified thirty-seven years old coach and not like a schoolboy on his first crush.

---

June, July, and August go by in a blur, a welcome change from the lethargic summers and canceled shows of the previous two years. Stéphane returns to Switzerland at the end of June and spends most of the summer months training the Champery brood and hopping around ice rinks in Europe to meet old and new skaters, work on choreography, and plan ice shows. Life is finally back to normal.

He and Shoma are also back to their routine of having Zoom meetings twice a week to go over practice recordings, usually with Hama-san or Itsuki helping to translate. Stéphane had hoped that being away from Shoma would take care of his unwanted feelings, but the more they are apart the more Stéphane misses him. He’s caught himself spacing out while he’s at the rink, thinking about what Shoma might be doing, how his practice is going, if he’s being diligent with his off-ice training. He tells himself he’s just a coach worried about his skater’s performance. He knows he’s lying.

The end of August comes, and it’s time to fly back to Japan. He packs chocolate as omiyage for Shoma’s family, Hama-san, and Demi-san. He chooses dark chocolate with strawberry filling for Shoma. Something sweet and bitter, simple and complex at the same time. It’s fitting.

It’s also incredibly corny, and Stéphane  would probably die of shame if anyone knew he’s still behaving like when he was twenty-two and fell in love for the first time.

---

The air inside the Friends on Ice venue is chilly on Stéphane ’s skin, a welcome respite from Japan's muggy summer heat. On the ice, a familiar figure is practicing choreography, and the sight puts an involuntary smile on Stéphane ’s face.

"Shoma! Hello!"

Shoma whips his head around, pivots with a scrape of blades on ice, and skates towards him. Stéphane is always taken aback by Shoma's ability to accelerate on ice, and before he knows it, he has an armful of the younger skater in his arms.

"Stéphane! Hisashiburi!" Shoma says, words muffled against Stéphane’s shoulder. Stéphane holds him tighter for a second, and regrets having to let go.

“How’s training going?”

Shoma gives him a satisfied little smile, the kind Stéphane sees on his face whenever Shoma manages to go through a with few or no mistakes.

“Getting better,” he says. “But combination spin in second half feel… off? Stéphane check what is wrong, please?”

“Show me,” Stéphane asks, and Shoma goes back out on the ice, making back and forth turns until he finds the bit of the music he’s looking for in his head. He starts skating mid-program, but Stéphane has spent so long refining this choreography and has seen Shoma’s recordings so many times he can practically hear the music in his head.

Shoma’s sequence of movements has gotten much more natural, and god, Stéphane has missed seeing him skate in front of his eyes. The liquid grace of his skating is mesmerizing.

“This part, Stéphane,” Shoma calls out.

“Ah, I get what you mean,” Stéphane says, skating over to stand by Shoma. “You’re not supporting with your standing side. Your arm and leg should be aligned, like this.” He demonstrates the move, and Shoma lifts his arm obediently.

“Hmm, you should be holding with your muscles here. More support.” He presses his hand against Shoma’s armpit, gently but firmly, feeling Shoma's muscles contract in response, lifting him higher and straighter.

“And your back leg, it’s not parallel to the floor.” His other hand finds the space under Shoma’s thigh, guiding him into the correct position. Shoma’s muscles are thick and solid under his grip, and Stéphane has to make an effort not to think how it would feel like to —

Shoma angles his head back to glance at Stéphane, hair sticking to his face and shadowing his eyes. His face always flushes so prettily, the red patch on his jaw a stark contrast against his pale skin. Stéphane swallows. Once again, he finds it hard to look away. Maybe it was a mistake, getting so close. Maybe being apart didn’t do anything to temper his feelings.

“This is how the position should be,” he says, using his coach voice to steady himself. “Can you remember the way it feels?”

“Yes,” Shoma says. “Feels good.” There's a breathless quality to his voice.

He gives Stéphane another of those appraising looks, and then leans back until he’s resting against Stéphane’s chest, head tucked under his chin.

“Tired,” he says, closing his eyes.

He’s undoubtedly a brat, but also a warm, sweaty weight against Stéphane. He feels right inside Stéphane’s arms, a feeling not unlike that of puzzle pieces perfectly slotting together.

Shoma’s hair tickles his neck. It’s gotten longer over the summer, and Stéphane likes those soft waves. He brushes a few strands away, tucking them behind Shoma’s ear. Shoma keeps his eyes closed, but smiles.

“Do it one more time. I haven’t seen a full run-through, yet,” Stéphane says calmly, although his heart is pounding against his ribcage. He wonders if Shoma can feel it.

Shoma opens his eyes halfway, looks up at him lazily like a cat. Mmmh, he murmurs, “what give Shoma in return?”

“Brat,” Stéphane says fondly, and without warning, he digs his fingers into Shoma’s sides and gives him a little shove. Shoma jumps away with an indignant yelp and throws Stéphane an offended look before skating to the center of the rink one more time.

Stéphane leans against the boards, watching Shoma struggle a little on the jumps and the step sequence, but making it to the end of the program without any major mistakes. It’s the cleanest run-through Stéphane has seen so far.

As soon as Shoma breaks out of his ending pose he turns to Stéphane, with a little grin on his face that simultaneously says not good enough yet and but I’m happy with today's work, and, as always, what does Stéphane  think?

Stéphane feels his heart squeeze in his chest. How many times has he seen Shoma look at him like this, even in competition, like Stéphane's approval is the only thing that matters to him in the whole world?

Shoma's smile falters. "I know not good," he says, in response to Stéphane's silence. “Do again tomorrow.” That shakes Stéphane out of his thoughts.

"No, no! You looked great, Shoma! Very elegant. You just need a little more precision, more polish, but otherwise it’s very good."

Shoma's face visibly lights up at the praise, and Stéphane is once again overwhelmed with pride and affection. He is Shoma's coach, and that's the only thing that matters. His job is to help Shoma succeed in what he wants to do, and he will mercilessly quash his desires if it means they can keep being together like they have until now.

---

The official rehearsal for Friends on Ice is underway, and Shoma is practicing a group number with other cast members. Stéphane sits at the back of the show venue, pretending to keep an eye on the choreography when he’s really just paying attention to Shoma. Down on the ice Keiji says something, making Shoma laugh and Stéphane smile by reflex. It’s good to see him like that, so confident and at ease around others.

“It's good to see Shoma-kun so relaxed and happy," a familiar voice says next to Stéphane, echoing his thoughts. He whips his head around, surprised.

"Daisuke? It's good to see you!" Stéphane cries out, and pulls the other man into a crushing hug. Seeing Daisuke always puts him in a good mood, and they’ve had precious few chances to meet over the past two years. "How are you doing?" he asks, unable to stop smiling.

Daisuke sits down next to him. “Trying to get in shape before the next season. I feel like I've been doing nothing but muscle training for months... I could probably lift you at this point."

"You could ask Shizuka to add a little ice dance routine for us. I'm sure the audience would love it."

"They’d go wild," Daisuke says, and the wicked glint in his eye makes Stéphane laugh. “But sorry, I’m already performing with Jeremy this year. I hope you’re not too jealous.”

Stéphane puts a hand over his heart, feigning betrayal. “I thought I was your one and only!”

“Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite,” Daisuke says with a wink. “Speaking of favorites, it looks like Shoma-kun is in great shape this year. Aiming for a second gold at Worlds?"

They both turn their attention back to the ice, just in time to see Shoma land a perfect quad flip. Daisuke whistles, and Stéphane doesn’t even try to hold back a proud smile.

“Still a long way to Worlds, but he’s doing so well. His drive and work ethic are unbelievable.”

“You did his choreography again this year, right?”

Stéphane nods. “Yes, the short program. I wanted something different for him, this time. Something mature and sophisticated, that could show his growth and maybe a side of him that people haven’t seen yet. I love how it’s coming together. Every time I see it, it gets a bit better. I think he’s starting to understand the way the music and the choreography work together and making it his own.”

Daisuke hums in agreement. "I’ve seen it. It doesn’t look like he’s skating for a competition, though. He skates like he’s floating on the ice. Like he’s in love."

Stéphane turns to look at Daisuke again, smile freezing on his lips. "What?"

Daisuke raises his eyebrows.

"You know what I mean. That… that focus when you skate, like you want that one person to be unable to take their eyes off you? I’ve been watching Shoma-kun at competitions since he was…what? Twelve, maybe? He’s always had focus, but it didn’t look like he knew who he was skating for. Some skaters skate for the audience. Others skate to prove something to themselves, or to someone they love. But Shoma-kun…I always felt like he couldn't make up his mind, or maybe he didn’t care enough to think about it. But since he’s been with you... it looks like he's found who he's skating for. And it shows."

Daisuke’s gaze is heavy on him, and a chill runs down Stéphane’s spine.

"I don't know what you are trying to say," he says stiffly. "He needed to get his confidence and his love for skating back. I just helped him to do that. That’s what you’re seeing.”

"Stéphane..." Daisuke says hesitantly, putting a hand on Stéphane's arm. It’s meant to be soothing, but Stéphane bristles and shrugs the hand away. 

Why do his friends keep bringing this kind of stuff up? Is he that transparent? Are his feeling this obvious?

"I am Shoma's coach. He is my student. That's all there is to it." He says through gritted teeth. It’s becoming a mantra, one he has to force himself to believe in.

“Hey, hey. I know, Stéphane.” Daisuke says, and then he sighs. “It’s just…I saw you two earlier, you know, at the rink. And then I left because I wasn’t sure if that was something you’d want others to see.”

Stéphane  freezes. Ah.

“There was nothing to see.” He says, clipped. He keeps his eyes on Shoma, to avoid looking at Daisuke.

Daisuke sighs again. “I’m not saying it was anything… inappropriate. Just… be careful with his feelings, okay? You are so generous with your love and attention that people can’t help but fall for you.”

Stéphane lets out a bitter laugh, annoyance deflating to leave behind just weariness. If only it were this simple, just a matter of Shoma having a puppy crush on him.

“It’s not just him. It’s my fault for failing to keep my feelings for him strictly professional.”

Daisuke’s eyes widen, a sudden stricken look on his face. “You mean you —”

Stéphane  understands where Daisuke’s thoughts are going, and it fills him with horror. “Oh god, no! Nothing happened! Seriously, Daisuke. I haven’t crossed any line. I would never force my feelings on a student! Please… don’t say anything about this to anyone.”

“So it’s not just him, then,” Daisuke says, watching him closely.

Stéphane doesn’t reply. Silence is probably confirmation enough.

“What do you want, Stéphane?” Daisuke eventually says, more gently. His expression has softened, although Stéphane doesn’t feel like he deserves this kindness.

“I want him to be happy. I want him to keep his love for skating and have a fulfilling career, however long he chooses it to be. And I… want him to stay with me.” He says the last part in a whisper, like a confession. “But lately he’s been… pushing for something more, and I'm not sure if he even realizes it, but I don’t know how I’m going to keep saying no without hurting him. And I know that if I say yes I’ll end up hurting him anyway.”

Daisuke takes a long time to reply. His eyes are distant, and with a pang of guilt Stéphane realizes he’s likely dredged up memories best left forgotten.

“You don’t know that.” Daisuke eventually says. His answer takes Stéphane completely by surprise.

“Come on, Daisuke. We’re still… he’s still my student. There are so many ways in which this could go wrong. And I’ve made a lot of mistakes when it comes to boundaries. Not so much with Shoma, perhaps, but it doesn’t matter. I want my students to feel safe at the school.” He looks at Daisuke. “You of all people should understand.”

Daisuke looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “But I also know that not all coaches are abusive bastards who take advantage of their athletes. Whatever you think you did wrong, I don’t think it comes even remotely closer to some of what I’ve seen.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Stéphane says, feeling utterly defeated.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Daisuke suggests. “He’s young, but he’s not a kid anymore. If it’s something that both of you want, trying to ignore it won’t make it go away.”

Daisuke’s phone chimes and he glances down. "Ah, Kana is waiting for me at the dance studio, I've gotta go. But Stéphane–– " he puts an arm on his shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. “You know you can always talk to me, yes? I’m not going to judge you.”

Stéphane nods. He knows that if he answers he’s going to get emotional, so he doesn’t say anything but a whispered thank you.

Chapter Text

Shoma takes off his skates and changes out of his sweat-soaked training gear, shoving it unceremoniously into his bag before slipping his shoes on. The last practice session before Friends oh Ice is over, and he’s reasonably sure he can remember the gist of the choreography for the group numbers. More or less. He hasn’t seen much of Stéphane in the afternoon, with him being busy practicing his duet – and Shoma’s mind keeps going back to the day before, replaying every smile, every touch, the sense of breathless anticipation of being with Stéphane. If he closes his eyes he can feel it, the ghost of Stéphane’s hand against his back, gently steering him into the correct poses of his routine, sending shivers down his spine, making him want to press back and chase each fleeting sensation.

Has it always felt like this, being touched by him? He knows that for Stéphane touch is as natural as breathing, unlike for Shoma. With time he’s come to appreciate all that touch can convey; direction, appreciation, affection, care. Sometimes it’s all he needs to regain clarity and balance when he feels he’s lost his way. A steadying hand on his hip, Stéphane’s fingers tilting his chin up to correct the direction of his gaze. Stéphane’s hand sliding under his thigh to improve the lift of his leg. Like yesterday.

It’s always professional, but Shoma has started to lean into those touches more and more, to crave contact. Is it too obvious? Is it too much? He’d started to feel that Stéphane’s touch might mean something more. And yet he’d seen something in his eyes at the end of their morning practice that had left him shaken. The way Stéphane had recoiled and let him go as if touching Shoma had burned him.

He’s between a coach and a friend, he had told the interviewer earlier, when they were filming for the interview segments of the show. Was that all he was? What does he want from Stéphane? And what does Stéphane want from him? Is their relationship only about skating?

“Shoma, everything okay?” Stéphane calls from outside the changing room, startling Shoma out of his meandering thoughts.

“Coming!” he yells back, slinging his bag over his shoulder and grabbing the suitcase with his training gear.

“Did you get lost in there?” Stéphane says when he sees him, a puzzled smile on his face.

Shoma shakes his head. “Go eat together?” He says hopefully, glancing at Hama-san and Demi-san for confirmation. Stéphane, however, looks apologetic.

“What about another day? I promised some of the others to have dinner with them. Haven’t seen some of them since before the pandemic.”

“Ah. It’s fine," Shoma replies. He keeps his face as neutral as he can, careful not to show the twinge of disappointment he feels in his heart. Of course Stéphane did not think of including him. Those are his actual friends, after all. People his age he’s known since forever and that he actually likes spending time with.

He ends up having a quick dinner with Hama-san and Demi-san and then getting back early to the hotel. He wants to do something to distract himself, but he can’t stop thinking about Stéphane.

He picks up his Switch and games for a while, then throws it away the first time he loses, rolling around on the bed in helpless frustration. He considers calling Itsuki. His brother is probably home at this time anyway, and he can invite him to a round of clash royale as an excuse to have someone to talk to. Or maybe he should just keep his problems to himself. His finger hovers over Itsuki's name on his contact list for a while, but eventually he presses the video call button.

It takes a while for Itsuki to pick up the phone.

“Hi,” his brother says. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Bored. Want to play clash royale? I sent you an invite.”

Itsuki gives him a suspicious look but doesn’t say anything except “ —ok, sure?”

They’re half an hour into the game – making small talk on video chat as they play on their ipads – when finally Shoma bites the bullet.

“Hey, what does liking someone feel like?’ he asks.

Itsuki stops focusing on his game to stare at him, long enough for Shoma to destroy his tower and win the game.

“Whoa, did you do that on purpose? That’s not a question I was expecting,” Itsuki says. “Since when do you care about relationships?”

“Since… can you just answer?”

“I don’t know, aren’t you the older brother? You just know, no? Like when you can’t stop thinking about that person and you want to be with them all the time? Think they’re crazy attractive? Want to do stuff with them? Like going on dates? But also, you know. Sex and stuff?”

Shoma mentally compares that description to his own experience and makes a face. He doesn’t particularly care about dates. He’s thought – rather guiltily – about what sex with Stéphane would be like, but in a sort of abstract way. He just knows he wants to be with him, but the specifics are kind of fuzzy. Except he does think about him all the time. His brain just can’t stop going Stéphane Stéphane Stéphane and driving him crazy.

“I think I might like… Stéphane,” Shoma says, very softly, into the room. The hotel room is quiet, just the buzz of the air conditioner and the sound of distant traffic breaking the long silence that follows his words.

Itsuki closes his eyes, takes a long breath, then says, “—well, can’t say I am completely surprised? I’m just surprised it took you so long to realize. But again, you are the dense brother.”

“You suck,” Shoma says.

Itsuki replies with a rude gesture. “Now the big question is… what do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Shoma says with an exaggerated sigh, and lets himself fall back on the bed. He holds his phone up high, Itsuki's face peering down at him.

“I mean, there was this girl in high school that I liked for a whole year even after she turned me down… I thought I would never get over it, but now I barely remember her," Itsuki says, shrugging. “It will go away, eventually.”

Shoma thinks about whether he can pinpoint the moment he started liking Stéphane, but finds that he can’t. Stéphane had always been some kind of special presence, from back when he was teaching summer training camps in Japan. Shoma’s feelings have been there for a long time, he just didn’t recognize them. Or maybe now they’ve evolved to the point where he just can’t ignore them anymore. So much has changed in the past year. Winning Worlds had been the culmination of years of efforts, years in which he had focused almost single-mindedly on his performance. Now that he has proven to himself, to Stéphane  – and to the world – that he can be at the top, he’s finally found the space to focus on everything else going on in his life, his own feelings included.

“What if I want to do something about it?” he says.

“Oh my god,” Itsuki exclaims. “He’s your coach! He’s like, fifteen years older than you! Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Twelve! Does it really matter so much?! And I can’t help it, okay? I can’t talk about this to anyone. I was hoping that at least you would… accept it.”

Itsuki’s expression softens a little. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you? I thought it was just, you know… when I came with you to Champéry it looked like all the skaters at his school had a crush on him. Girls and boys. I don’t really understand, but I guess you can’t help how you feel.”

“Yeah,” Shoma says. “It’s Stéphane ,” he adds, like that explains everything.

“But like, what do you want to do? What hope do you have of him being interested in you?”

Shoma thinks about the past few months. That time at the Chukyo rink. This morning during practice. The way Stéphane’s gaze lingers on him in a way that makes the skin on Shoma’s back tingle. That time at Worlds, when he’d held Shoma so tight he’d felt they could melt into each other. And back to the countless other times when hugs had lingered and hands had touched and lines had blurred.

He tries to keep his expression neutral, but his lips curl up in a little smile. “Maybe I do have some hope.”

Itsuki makes a shocked noise and covers his mouth.

“Are you serious? He is your coach… Do I have to threaten to break his legs if he hurts you or something?”

“It’s not like that!” Shoma hastily replies. “He didn’t do anything! It’s just… sometimes I feel he might… I don’t know. Be interested? But then he’s like… so… proper. So mature. I guess he sees me just as a kid who skates and games.”

“Well, you are a kid who just skates and games, big bro,” Itsuki said with a snicker. “Even if you went to the Olympics and won Worlds.”

Shoma groans and glares into his phone. “Not helping, here,” he whines.

“You could, I don’t know? Show him that you have refined taste too. That you’re actually dateable, although that might be asking too much. Bring him to a fancy restaurant or something. Or get him something nice as a present.”

“I can’t even imagine going to a fancy restaurant. What if they ask me to pick a wine or something?”

“Yeah, you’d probably make a fool of yourself.”

“Itsuki!”

Itsuki sighed. “Listen, if Stéphane is really interested in you, like, romantically, it’s because of who you already are, right? There’s no point in trying to be something you are not. Just be yourself.”

Shoma looks at Itsuki, impressed. “That’s… the most profound and at the same time the most useless advice you’ve ever given me.”

“Well, do you have any better ideas?”

Shoma sighs, defeated. “I guess not. So what do I do?”

Itsuki gives him the kind of Look that usually means how are you so dumb are we even related.

“If you think someone likes you, but for whatever reason they’re not sure if they want to be with you, what do you do?”

Shoma thinks about it. “I don’t know? Give them space to think?”

Itsuki grabs his head in his hand. “Nooo! See? This is why you’ve never gotten laid. Not even at the Olympics. Everyone gets laid at the Olympics!”

Shoma shuts his mouth, because there’s nothing he can say in reply to that. He doesn’t quite know how to explain that it’s not that he couldn’t, it’s more like he didn’t want to. He sighs. “How do you even know? Most people just take the free condoms home as souvenirs. But that’s not the point. What do you think I should do?”

Itsuki rolls his eyes. “You seduce him! You woo him!”

Shoma gives his brother a blank look, and Itsuki scrunches his face in mock desperation. “Find your own way to do it? No fancy restaurants. Do something nice for Stéphane . Tell him how good he looks? Ask him out somewhere? Look at him coyly and be pretty? This one at least shouldn’t be hard. It’s not rocket science.”

“Mmmm,” Shoma says, because in theory it’s obvious, but at the same time most of it sounds pretty ridiculous to him. He tries to picture himself telling Stéphane how good he looks and thinks it would be pretty damn embarrassing, although Stéphane does, in fact, look amazing. “I’ll think about it.”

“Well, I’m here if you need to talk, ok? But please don’t give me too many details.”

Shoma grins, feeling oddly drained but also grateful. He knows that, despite his grumbling, Itsuki will listen to him, and that alone makes him feel better. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And now if you’re done telling me about your romantic woes I’ll go back to my assignment for university. Us mere mortals still need to do homework.”

“Yeah, thank you. See you in a few days.”

Itsuki waves at him and ends the call.

Shoma stares for a while into the black depths of his phone and then flings it to the side, sighing. He thinks about Stéphane, out somewhere, having fun with the other skaters, and wants to be there too.

——

Despite the atmosphere of general chaos, the first show of Friends on Ice ends successfully, much to everyone’s relief. The evening show has just started, but after the opening group number Shoma has nothing to do until his solo, almost at the end of the second act, so he alternates between doing a bit of warmup, a bit of gaming, and a bit of watching the other skaters on the backstage livestream. He’s talking to Hama-san when the announcer on the stream calls out Stéphane’s name, and Shoma’s attention is immediately drawn to the screen.

It’s a different performance from the one Stéphane had shown him that night at the rink, something more experimental-looking, but, he soon finds out, equally spellbinding. There’s something raw and less controlled than usual about the performance, but the long, graceful lines of Stéphane’s arms trace movements that feel powerful and light at the same time. Once again, Shoma can’t take his eyes away from Stéphane’s beautiful body, and his unique ability to directly transmute feelings coming from deep inside into pure movement.

Stéphane falls on the ice, and for a second Shoma’s heart stops, although it’s obvious that he did it on purpose. It takes a special kind of courage, or maybe experience, to let oneself fall on purpose, Shoma thinks. He can’t tell if Stéphane is trying to tell a story; it’s the feelings that get to him, unfiltered. This is what is so mesmerizing about Stéphane’s skating; the way his feelings come across as clear as crystal, like that night on the ice. Shoma wishes he could do the same outside of performances, reach out and touch them, Stéphane’s real feelings for him.

He’s been staring at the screen without really processing what he’s seeing for so long that the next performers are already on the ice; he stumbles back to the changing room, because his heart is beating so hard that it feels like it’s going to hammer out of his chest.

He’s rummaging through his bag for his water bottle when the door opens, and Stéphane comes in flushed and sweaty.

“Hey, Shoma.” Stéphane greets him with shining eyes and a smile that’s a little bit wild around the edges, and Shoma thinks again about how different he is from the Stéphane in jackets and ties and fancy coats that he’s gotten used to seeing over the past few years. He looks full of energy, brilliant, electric.

“Good performance,” Shoma says, feeling immediately lame because it was so much more than just good.

“Were you watching?” Stéphane asks. It's an innocent question, but it makes Shoma want to answer with something stupid like I watch you all the time, what do you think, so he just nods.

“Stéphane always beautiful performance.”

“It feels good to perform again. How was yours? I couldn’t watch it during the previous show because Satoko and I go right after you. Maybe I can ask to see the recordings.”

Shoma smiles and gives him a thumbs-up. “Jumps not perfect, but… feeling is good. Fun. Try to think like Stéphane.”

“Like me?” Stéphane says. He’s going on the ice again only after Shoma, right near the end, so he sits down beside him to take off his skates.

Shoma makes an affirmative sound, trying to ignore the way Stéphane looks in his barely-there, see-through top. “Yes. Like artist. still not good, kedo…”

Stéphane gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Try not to overthink it too much. This is not competition. It’s good to just have fun, yes?”

Shoma nods. He rakes his brain for something to say, for once that he and Stéphane are completely alone, and Itsuki's words come to his mind.

“Nice costume,” he blurts out, and the plan was to make it sound casual but he can’t really look at Stéphane’s face, so his eyes fall to his chest. The folds of Stéphane’s mesh shirt have parted open to reveal a strip of skin underneath, and Shoma can’t stop looking. There’s a glistening of sweat on Stéphane’s skin, and the rise and fall of his breath under toned abs, and Shoma wants to press his hands flat against them and find out how Stéphane’s skin feels against his.

He looks up hesitantly, following the curve of Stéphane’s naked arm up to the sharp line of his jaw until he finally meets his eyes. Stéphane is looking back at him, a trace of post-performance high left in his face, eyes dark, lips parted.

Shoma reaches out, brushes his fingertips across Stéphane’s bicep, feels goosebumps rise in the wake of his caress.

Stéphane’s eyes narrow. “No, Shoma,” he says, polite as always, but with an undercurrent of ice that makes Shoma's heart clench.

Stéphane stands up and goes to the other end of the changing room, where his things are.

“I’m going to change into the costume for the next performance,” he says, not looking at Shoma, and the implication that Shoma shouldn’t be there is crystal clear.

Stéphane stands with his back to him, the lines of his body stiff and unforgiving, and Shoma hates it. That isn’t the Stéphane he knows – Stéphane has never turned his back on him, he’s always been there with open arms. Shoma knows it’s his own fault, but the desire for things to change is equally as strong as the desire for them to stay the same. Choosing between the two feels like endlessly lurching at the edge of a precipice.

The door suddenly bursts open and Daisuke and Jeremy walk in, sweaty and laughing and clinging to each other.

Stéphane turns, grins at them, and the tension dissolves at once. “Good performance? I was getting changed, I couldn’t see you guys.”

“Yeah, love tonight’s crowd,” Jeremy says, “and just having this guy on the ice drives people wild, anyway,” he continues, slapping Daisuke’s back. They all laugh, and Shoma feels that sense of distance again, the invisible wall between him and them.

He tries to slink away, but Daisuke turns to him with a smile.

“Hey Shoma! Do you want to come out to eat with us after the show? There’s a great izakaya close to the hotel that we discovered yesterday.”

Shoma is almost tempted to say no – he’s tired and already close to his social interaction limit for the day, but it’s Dai-chan asking. Stéphane is surely going to be there, too, and Shoma is like a moth attracted to a flame: he can’t stay away, even when he knows he might end up getting burned.

“Sure. What time?” He replies.

“We’re going out directly from here after the show ends, so just hang around and we’ll go together,” Daisuke replies, smiling.

Shoma gives him a thumbs up and leaves the changing room, the sound of chatter and laughter following him until he shuts the door behind himself.

——

The izakaya Dai-chan talked about ends up being a vaguely seedy-looking place rather far from the hotel, but it has private rooms so their group gets to be on its own during dinner. It’s mainly the older members of the cast, and Shoma is happy they are starting to treat him less like a kid, although he has the feeling that some of them – Shizuka san, for example – will always see him as one. He knows he’s also been invited because of his connection to Stéphane, and the fact that people see them as a set makes him secretly happy.

He thinks about how different the atmosphere is compared to the other shows he’s in, where he’s surrounded by skaters his age or younger. Here he’s almost the youngest. And now that he and Stéphane finally have more chances to be in social situations together, Shoma can see more clearly that Stéphane is still quite… young. It’s hard from Shoma’s perspective to see it, but when Stéphane is surrounded by people his age he laughs more freely in that cute high-pitched way of his, and pokes fun at the other skaters and teases them like Shoma does with his friends. The thought makes Shoma feel less weird about his feelings, but he doesn’t think Stéphane sees it in quite the same way.

They make a toast to celebrate the first successful day of show. Shoma clinks his glass of umeshu to Stéphane’s sake cup and takes a sip. He likes the sweet, rich taste of plum liquor. He looks into the glass and swirls the amber liquid around the ice cubes, lets himself once again fade into the background. Stéphane is busy talking to Shae-Lynn and Shizuka and they’re all laughing. He’s trying to pay attention to their words, but the fast-paced English is too much for him.

He glances at Daisuke, who is sitting in front of him, and their eyes meet. Daisuke takes a look at him and then comes over to sit on the bench next to him, casually draping a hand around his shoulders. Shoma is suddenly very grateful that Dai-chan is there.

“So, how is it to be in shows together with your coach? Must feel a bit weird.” Daisuke says.

“It’s… new.” Shoma admits. “It’s the first show we do together since he became my coach, I’m not used to it.”

“You get a glimpse of the Stéphane behind the scenes, uh? How different is he from when he’s your coach?”

“Completely different!” Shoma says, with feeling. “He's much more serious when we are at competitions.” And he pays attention to me, he wants to add, but he doesn't. Maybe he has just gotten too spoiled, drunk on the feeling of having Stéphane’s attention entirely on him. When you’re at the receiving end of that kind of focus from someone like Stéphane, you kind of start to forget that your coach is a human being with a life outside of competition. Or maybe it’s just Shoma who forgets.

“It’s been what, four years since the last time? Do you remember?”

“I can’t forget,” Shoma murmurs. How could he ever? He’d been so nervous before that performance, at the thought of skating a whole duet with Stéphane. That was before he could even imagine that Stéphane would become his coach, barely a year later.

He orders more umeshu, and then a bottle of expensive sake starts making the rounds. Stéphane turns to him with the bottle and a questioning look, offering to fill Shoma’s cup in perfect Japanese style.

Shoma holds out his cup between his hands and doesn’t even think about saying no, dizzy with quiet excitement at the little crumb of attention from Stéphane. He’s starting to feel lightheaded, but there’s a pleasant buzz in his head. He remembers that night at the restaurant in Nagoya, when Stéphane had just arrived in Japan. Remembers how he’d let Shoma press close, how his hand had been on Shoma’s thigh, his touch hot like fire, how he’d skated for him in the empty rink.

Shoma misses that time, now. Things had been easier, until that point. And he misses the playfulness of their practice sessions, too. Now Stéphane seems more and more on edge every time Shoma gets close to him. And the more Stéphane does that, the more Shoma wants to chase him, because he’s never been able to walk away from a challenge, if the result is something that matters to him. And he can’t imagine a world where Stéphane is not with him, touching him, hugging him.

He gets closer, leaning into Stéphane’s personal space to seek comfort, but Stéphane leans away ever so slightly, leaving Shoma fuming in silent frustration. He orders another umeshu, and sips it while he lets the conversation flow around him. He feels floaty and annoyed and daring all at the same time. He glances at Stéphane, who’s telling some story to his captive audience.

Shoma takes a deep breath and puts a hand on Stéphane’s thigh under the table.

Stéphane abruptly stops talking.

“What?” Shae-Lynn asks.

Stéphane’s laugh sounds forced, and Shoma wonders if he’s the only one who can tell.

 “Ah, nothing,” he says, and continues telling whatever story he was in the middle of. Under the table, his hand closes around Shoma’s and removes it from his thigh. He doesn’t so much as glance at him, and that makes Shoma irrationally angry. He wants Stéphane to acknowledge him. Look at him.

Jason, who is discussing something with Keiji opposite Shoma, waves an arm to catch his attention.

“Shoma, what about you? You never talk about this kind of stuff,” he says, sounding a little inebriated himself.

Shoma looks at Jason, frowning. He didn’t catch the question, and it’s getting harder and harder to focus on what people around him are saying. “What?”

“I said if there’s someone you like!” Jason repeats.

“Why should I tell?” Shoma replies.

“Just give us a hint!” Jason exclaims.

Daisuke laughs and pokes Shoma in the ribs. “This guy here is very private, you’re not going to get it out of him that easy.”

“You can tell us or take a shot,” Jason says, pouring Shoma another cup of sake and almost spilling half in the process.

Shoma makes a face. He doesn’t like this kind of games, but he guesses that being the youngest comes with some – mostly harmless – teasing. So he takes the cup between two fingers and downs it. The skaters around him cheer and clap.

“Hey, don’t drink too much,” Stéphane says, finally looking at him with a frown.

“Why care about it?” Shoma bites back, with more venom than he himself expected, because Stéphane recoils a little.

“Of course I care,” Stéphane says. “we still have two days left… skating with a hangover is not fun, I assure you.”

“I’m fine,” Shoma says curtly. “Stéphane not my coach here.”

Stéphane opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then he doesn’t. He looks… hurt? Surprised, maybe? Shoma feels a twist of dark satisfaction at having been able to get a reaction out of him.

“I can’t stop being your coach,” Stéphane in a low voice, with a sense of finality that makes Shoma want to yell at him. He hates that Stéphane is whispering like he doesn’t want anyone to hear, like Shoma is some kind of dirty secret.

“I hate that,” he says loudly, attracting some looks from the people sitting closer to them.

“Shoma, please,” Stéphane says, half pleading and half chiding. “Don’t act like a child.”

That’s the last straw for Shoma, who has been struggling with that very thought for months, about whether Stéphane just sees him like a kid, and he can’t hold back anymore. He claws his hand into Stéphane’s shoulder, hard enough to make Stéphane turn to him with a startled look on his face. And then he leans in and presses their lips together, hard enough to bruise. Stéphane ’s teeth split his lip, and he tastes blood. It’s a bad kiss – no softness, no skill – just Shoma shouting at Stéphane I’m here don’t ignore me look at me in the only way he can.

He doesn’t even know how long the kiss lasts. It could be a second, or a minute, or an hour. The whole table has gone silent. Then someone whistles, and that seems to break the spell, because Stéphane pushes him away so hard that Shoma falls back against Daisuke.

Stéphane has never once been anything but gentle with him, and it feels like whiplash. He looks shocked, angry. Betrayed. Shoma can’t remember the last time he saw him angry, and that anger had not been directed at him anyway. All the defiance suddenly leaves him, and he just wants to be anywhere away from here and from the disappointment in Stéphane’s eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, on the verge of panic. He fumbles for his jacket and bag, barely registering that Stéphane is saying something to the others that must be some kind of joke, because someone laughs and the chatter slowly resumes. Shoma’s face is burning, and he just wants to be out of there as quickly as possible. He nearly pushes Daisuke off the bench while he tries, clumsily, to stand up. It's at that point that he realizes he might have drank a little too much, because his legs feel shaky and his head woozy.

“Hey, hey,” Daisuke says, grabbing his arm to steady him. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the hotel,” Shoma says, regretting every single choice he’s made that evening, starting from coming here in the first place.

“You’re drunk, it’s not safe,” Daisuke replies, concern written all over his face. “Just a little bit longer, and then we can go back together. It’s okay, nothing big happened, it’s just us.”

The idea of having to sit next to Stéphane for even a minute longer feels unbearable to Shoma. “I’m going,” he repeats, taking a wobbly but determined step past Daisuke. Daisuke looks over his head with mild surprise, and then Shoma feels a pair of hands closing around his shoulders to hold him upright. He doesn’t even need to look, that touch and pressure almost as familiar to him as his own body.

“I’ll walk Shoma back,” Stéphane says.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Daisuke asks in a quiet voice, looking between the two of them.

“This is probably my fault,” Stéphane mutters. “As you said.”

Shoma has no idea what they are talking about, but he’s beyond caring. “Can go. Alone,” he snaps, making a face at Stéphane from over his shoulder.

Stéphane sighs. “No, I don’t think so,” he replies. He helps Shoma into his jacket, and Daisuke hands him his bag, and then he gets ushered out in a rather undignified way, although he can tell Stéphane is trying to get them out with as little fanfare as possible. He can feel the stares and hear giggles, and the sooner they’re out of there, the better.

Shoma doesn’t realize he was holding his breath until they’re out of the smoky izakaya air and into the warm night breeze. He breathes in, trying to get his brain to focus on whatever words it is that he wants to say.

Stéphane walks beside him, completely silent, the only contact between them his hand around Shoma’s arm. Shoma can’t stop thinking about how lonely and cold that touch feels.

“Sorry, Stéphane,” he says after a while, in a small voice.

Stéphane lets out a long, audible sigh, but his hand gives Shoma a little squeeze. “Now it’s not a good time to talk. Tomorrow, when you’re not drunk.”

“Not drunk now,” Shoma mumbles out of sheer stubbornness, and Stéphane actually chuckles, presumably despite his better judgment.

“Yes, sure,” he replies dryly. “I remember how little it takes for you to get drunk.”

Shoma recalls one memorable time when the Champéry team had organized a party at Stéphane’s house, and he’d ended up passing out on Stéphane’s bed after drinking one beer too many. It’s a happy memory. It also feels like a long, long time ago.

“Champéry?” Shoma asks with a giggle, and Stéphane sighs again.

“Yes.”

“Stéphane make me go to party. No choice,” Shoma says, looking at Stéphane reproachfully.

“I know, my fault,” Stéphane says quietly into the night. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Shoma hums with the lightheadedness of alcohol, feeling floaty and not quite in control of his body. It’s been a while since the last time he drank this much. Maybe even since that time in Champéry. He sways and stumbles on an uneven bit of pavement, but Stéphane’s hand keeps him upright. His grip on Shoma’s arm is a bit less punishing, now; it still doesn’t feel like the way Stéphane usually holds him – none of his usual generous, enveloping warmth – but it’s thawing a little. Stéphane is usually incapable of staying angry at people for too long, although Shoma knows he’s gone too far, even in his inebriated state.

“Sorry,” he says again, but then tucks himself unrepentantly into Stéphane’s side. “Can’t walk straight,” he offers as an explanation.

“I’m not even sure about what you’re apologizing for anymore,” Stéphane mutters, but readjusts his arm so that it’s draped lightly across Shoma’s back, enough to keep him upright and straight but not enough to pull him closer.

“You’re going to get me in trouble if you keep acting like you’ve been doing tonight.”

“Maybe not big trouble,” Shoma says.

“Of course big trouble,” Stéphane replies,  in an imitation of Shoma’s broken English, and Shoma giggles again.

“I meant it, when I said I’m always your coach,” Stéphane says, so quietly that Shoma has to strain his ears. “Even if I wish I could forget, sometimes.”

“Mmh?” Shoma makes an interrogative sound. He couldn’t really hear what Stéphane said, so he just presses himself closer to Stéphane’s side.

“Nothing. Here’s the hotel,” Stéphane says, relief clear in his voice. Shoma would have just been happy for their night walk to continue forever.

They cross the darkened lobby and get into the elevator. Shoma looks at their reflections in the mirror and thinks that they look good together. He likes their height difference, the fact that he fits just right into Stéphane’s side.

Their eyes meet in the mirror, but Stéphane looks away. He looks tired, and his mouth is set into a thin, unhappy line. Shoma feels a stab of guilt, but at the same time he can’t stop thinking of how handsome he looks, and how warm and safe it feels to be with him, despite everything.

Maybe this is what love is, Shoma thinks distantly, like some kind of epiphany,  but it’s gone as soon as the elevator doors ping open and they step out into the carpeted corridor.

“Your keycard?” Stéphane asks when they reach Shoma’s room.

Shoma shoves his hands in his pockets and feels for the keycard, but it’s not there. He checks his bag too, and his pockets again, then looks at Stéphane with eyes as wide and innocent as possible.

“Oh for the love of—“ Stéphane mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead and dragging his fingers through his hair like he’s considering ripping it off. He very pointedly avoids looking directly at Shoma. “Let me call Hama-san.”

Shoma ends up sitting on the floor in front of his locked room while Stéphane paces back and forth, waiting for Hama-san to pick up. He's starting to feel sleepy and a little sick in his stomach.

“He’s not picking up,” Stéphane says, looking like he’s hanging on by a thread of patience. “I guess he’s sleeping, I don’t want to wake him up. Let’s go to my room. Just until I manage to get a hold of Hama-san.”

Shoma obediently picks himself up from the floor and follows Stéphane down the corridor. His room is on the same floor as Shoma’s, and the layout inside is similar too, with a double bed, a desk with a flatscreen tv, and a low table next to the bed, with a single armchair. Stéphane’s clothes are draped haphazardly all over, including in places where they’re not supposed to, like on top of the tv. There’s a stack of sudoku books on the table, next to a half-empty mug with a teabag label peeking from over the rim.

Shoma doesn’t even think about it, just plops down on the bed and lies on his back, feet dangling from the side, staring up at the ceiling and thinking it would be nice to just close his eyes for a minute.

Stéphane’s face appears into Shoma’s field of vision, looking down at him with a look that somehow manages to convey both concern and disapproval at once.

So handsome!, Shoma thinks through the alcohol haze in his brain. Stéphane’s hair is falling around his face, his light grey shirt open two buttons at the throat to show a glimpse of collarbones and the gold glint of his pendant. He can imagine it, Stéphane moving closer, pinning Shoma’s hands down on the bed, kissing him with that same frustrated desperation Shoma feels, the same desperation that had made him kiss Stéphane earlier.

And it must feel so good, he thinks, Stéphane on top of him, his weight pressing Shoma into the mattress, surrounding him. Must feel so good, and he wants it so much, so much that it makes sense to grab the front of Stéphane’s shirt and yank him down.

Stéphane makes a startled noise, and almost collapses on top of Shoma, except he catches himself on his elbow before they crash into each other.

“Shoma!” He spits out, an edge in his voice. “Cut it off, now.”

“Want a kiss. From Stéphane," Shoma says, and it feels so good to finally be able to say those words out loud.

“I can’t, and you’re drunk,” Stéphane says.

“Just one time,” Shoma says, in what is an utterly barefaced lie. He can feel the whine in his voice, but he doesn’t care. He will beg, if he has to. “Please, Stéphane.” He says, trying uncoordinatedly to pull himself up while at the same time pulling Stéphane down towards him.

“Enough!” Stéphane snaps, slapping Shoma’s hands away. The hit stings Shoma’s skin, but it’s not as painful as the ice in Stéphane ’s voice or the distance in his eyes. Are they going to be like this all the time, from now on? A relationship that has outgrown its proper boundaries, defined by constant rejection?

Shoma turns to his side, away from Stéphane, curling into himself. Tears burn in his eyes, and he closes his eyes tight so they don’t fall. He’s suddenly tired, and he feels sick, and all he wants to do is forget everything about tonight and not have to keep thinking about it anymore.

The mattress shifts with the weight of Stéphane lifting away from the bed. Shoma knows he should leave, maybe wake up Hama-san and ask to stay in his room for the night, but at the same time he doesn’t want to.

Stéphane’s footsteps again, soft on the padded floor.

“You should drink some water,” he says. Shoma imagines Stéphane’s eyes on him, but doesn’t dare to turn around. He’s afraid that Stéphane will tell him to leave if he does.

“I’m ok,” he says.

Stéphane sighs again. Shoma sleepily thinks that he’s never heard Stéphane sigh so much like in the past couple of days, and feels guilty again.

“Can I stay? Just a little,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes on the ugly pattern on the curtains. His eyelids feel heavy, and so does his heart.

There’s a long, long pause. “The water is on the nightstand,” is the last thing Shoma remembers hearing before he falls asleep.

——

Shoma wakes up to a parched mouth and a dull pounding ache behind his temples. He rolls over with a groan, and the red digits of the clock on the nightstand glare 06:17 at him.

Next to the clock there’s a glass of water, glistening in the faint light. Shoma reaches for it gratefully and drinks in long gulps, until his mouth doesn’t feel like sandpaper anymore. Memories of the night before start coming back to him, fuzzy but clear enough for him to remember that he kissed Stéphane, and everything that happened after.

He wishes he could forget. What the hell was he thinking? What is everyone thinking, now? What is Stéphane thinking of him?

The thought of Stéphane makes him look around the room. The curtain is not completely closed, letting a sliver of grey morning light in. Stéphane is huddled in the armchair in an awkward twisted position, legs draped across the side, fast asleep. He looks ridiculously uncomfortable, and Shoma realizes with fresh guilt that he’s occupying the only bed. He fell asleep on top of the bedspread, with his clothes from the night before, but Stéphane  must be the one who took off his shoes and draped a blanket over him.

He pulls himself up, wincing when his head makes a show of its displeasure at Shoma getting drunk, and walks barefooted to Stéphane, stopping in front of him to contemplate his sleeping face. Stéphane hasn’t shaved, and the silvery hair in his stubble make him look older, now. There’s something tense about him, the furrow between his eyebrows not disappearing even in sleep. Shoma wants to reach out and smooth it out with his finger, but at the same time he treasures the moment, because he can get his fill of gazing at Stéphane’s beloved face without embarrassment or reproach.

“Sorry,” he whispers. He takes the blanket that Stéphane had draped over him and tucks it around his shoulders, careful not to wake him up. Stéphane makes a small sound in his sleep, but doesn’t wake up.

Shoma collects his bag, jacket and shoes and tiptoes out of the room, closing the door as softly as he can behind him.

He’s thinking of where to go while he waits for the reception to open when he glances at his phone. He stops in his tracks when he sees a couple of text notifications from Daisuke.

found your keycard. Stéphane said you lost it   00:42

when you’re awake tell me so i can give it to you     00:43

when you get up, Shoma types quickly in response. He’s surprised when he sees that Daisuke is writing something, mere seconds later.

i can meet you in the lobby      06:25

now??? Shoma texts back. He hates being awake so early in the morning, and can’t imagine someone else willingly getting up at the crack of dawn.

jetlag, can’t sleep        06:26

gimme 5’ im coming    06:26

Shoma takes the elevator down, and steps out into the empty lobby. As promised, minutes later the elevator door dings open, and Daisuke steps out of it. Shoma waves at him from where he is huddling in the corner of one of the small sofas.

"You okay, Shoma?" Daisuke asks as soon as he gets to him. Shoma doesn't feel like talking, but the concern he sees in Daisuke's eyes makes him think that maybe he should. 

Shoma looks at him, hesitates. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe...not."

Without asking, Daisuke squeezes himself onto the sofa at Shoma's side.

"Is this about yesterday night?"

"What else could it be," Shoma says sullenly, avoiding Daisuke's eyes because he can't think about what happened without a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him. 

"Trust me, I've seen worse," Daisuke says, in a voice that has no business being this cheery at six thirty in the morning. "I have done worse. Hell, Stéphane too. Like that time he got caught by paparazzi at a gay bar. I think he was even younger than you. Seriously, you have no idea. I don’t think there was anyone in the room yesterday night that didn't have some kind of embarrassing story to tell if pressed. Nobody."

"Did you see Stéphane's reaction? I feel like I did something terrible to him." Shoma says in a small voice. The way Stéphane had pushed him away, that haunted, vaguely horrified look in his eyes, had cut deep.

Daisuke sighs. "You can imagine why, don't you?"

Shoma nods. He doesn’t care for gossip, and his isolation from social media means he usually doesn't know what goes on in other skaters' lives unless he's close friends with them, but even he has heard stories about some of the coaches.

"Stéphane cares a lot about creating a safe environment for his students, and he knows he can't afford that kind of rumors to spread. Once they start, they never really stop. And in the figure skating world there are so many examples of coaches that are—” Daisuke looks like he’s trying to find a neutral word and failing “—problematic. He is trying really hard to make sure his school is not like one of those places.” He gives Shoma an assessing look. "You know I was in a similar situation before?"

Shoma looks up, surprised. "Really?"

Daisuke chuckles and ruffles Shoma's hair. "Clueless as usual," he says, "but I guess you were too young back then."

"And... what did you do?" Shoma asks.

Daisuke hesitates. "Well, it’s… complicated. I left my coach at some point, when things became too much." Daisuke says simply. “But then I went back, and I'm still not sure if that was a good decision or not.”

For a moment there’s a faraway look on his face, a mix between longing and ache.

“I’m sorry,” Shoma says. He has no idea about what to say.

“It was a long time ago,” Daisuke replies. “And I'm not comparing my situation to yours, by the way. I just want you to understand things from Stéphane’s perspective too. We talked about this a lot, back when he was getting started with his school. He wanted to know what to look out for in the people he chose to work with, and how to do better for his skaters."

Shoma looks down at his hands, remembering the texture of Stéphane's shirt fisted between his fingers, and Stéphane shoving him away in horror. Hollow, cold dread coils at the center of his chest. "I didn’t really think about any of this," he says miserably. What if gossip about the kiss got leaked online? What if he ruined things for Stéphane?

"Hey, calm down," Daisuke says, squeezing his hand. "It's not so bad. It was just our circle of friends. Everyone there has known Stéphane since forever, and it was obvious you were drunk. As I said, we all did stupid things that would have been bad for our careers if they had gotten out." 

"What should I do?" Shoma groans, taking his head in his hands. He doesn't want to lose what he already has with Stéphane. At the same time, now he’s certain that it's not enough for him anymore. Skating has always been the center of his world, but at some point Stéphane has also become the center of it, his presence equally essential to Shoma. He wants Stéphane to see him as more than just a student, but at the same time he doesn't know exactly what he wants from him.

"That's really up to you, Shoma," Daisuke says, gently. "The safest thing to do is try to forget what you're feeling and keep your relationship strictly professional."

"Is that it? No hope?" Shoma asks, peering up at him through his bangs. 

"That depends on you. I know you well enough to know that once you set your eyes on a goal you don't let go so easily," Daisuke replies, ruffling his hair. "And I… I think I know Stéphane well enough too."

Shoma sits up straight, this time looking into Daisuke’s eyes. "What do you mean?" he asks, because there's no way Daisuke is implying what Shoma thinks he's implying, and yet. Hope is hard to quash completely.

Daisuke sighs again, running a hand across his face and looking like he's regretting starting this conversation. "Now don't get your hopes up, okay? But Stéphane... he would never make the first move. Not with a student, regardless of how he feels. If you want something, you have to take the initiative. But—” he looks at Shoma with a smirk, poking his forehead with a finger “—by taking the initiative I don't mean ‘throw yourself at him’. Talk to him. Be honest. Show Stéphane that he can trust you to act like an adult about this.”

Shoma looks away, feeling a new wave of red-hot shame coloring his cheeks. “Yeah, that was so fucking stupid,” he groans, hiding his face in his hands. “I will never be able to look at anyone in the face ever again. Especially Stéphane.”

Daisuke chuckles. “Well, love makes people do stupid things. Expect to be teased about it for the next ten years, though.” He wraps his arm around Shoma's shoulder.

“But seriously, apologize to Stéphane, ok? Talk to him. He will understand if you do, I think. Ignoring what happened will just make things worse.”

Shoma peers from between his fingers into warm brown eyes. Daisuke smiles at him, soft and sweet, and Shoma smiles back, feeling a swell of affection towards him. “Thank you,” he whispers, and hesitantly wraps his arms around him.

 Daisuke looks surprised for a second, then delighted, and hugs him back. “It’s going to be ok, in one way or another,” he says. “Don’t worry too much.”

Shoma presses his cheek against Dai-chan’s shoulder. He smells like fresh laundry, clean and comforting, so he closes his eyes and lets himself be held.