Chapter Text
Guido Mista is sitting in the ‘kiss & cry’ [1], waiting for his final score.
After the Free Skating program, the wave of flowers and stuffed toys submerged him. He waves back at the enthusiastic audience, but his gaze flickers as his thoughts linger.
Melodies of pop songs still hover above in the cold air, making the silence among referees even more eerie. Anxiously, Mista rests his fists on his knees, pinching and smoothing and wrinkles of his thin costume fabric. Out of the sudden, the audience erupted in thunderous cheers. He snapped back to reality, realizing he might have missed the score announcement.
“…It’s his new personal best! ” the compere’s voice breaks through.
Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.
“And he is currently ranked…in the fourth place!”
Shit.
Okay, but there is still one glimmer of hope – Giorno Giovanna, his lucky boy, the final competitor. It is the last chance to alter the rankings, the last hope for everyone.
Come on, Giorno, make it to the top of the podium.
Mista gazes into the dimly lit entrance at the opposite side of the rink.
* * *
Ghiaccio walks up the emergency exit staircase to the back row of the audience seats.
It takes him a while to calm his breath. He grips the door handle so tightly, but lets go of it in the end. Rarely does he allow emotions to take control on the ice, but now, hundreds of thousands of thoughts flood his mind. The frigid metal handle feels like a flame, burned his palm almost.
Damn it!
Ghiaccio violently kicks the door open, his fists slamming into the concrete wall with a loud, heartbreaking thud. However, with all the eyes fixed on the center of the ice, few bother to turn around. He tightens the gray hoodie around himself and retrieves his glasses from his pocket. The red frame of the glasses becomes the only touch of warmth in a palette of blue and gray. He frowns, leans against the door behind him, and stares at the blurred figure emerging from the entrance – a black shadow with conspicuous blonde hair.
Hmph!
Ghiaccio grips his hoodie sleeves and grits his teeth.
Giorno Giovanna.
I will kill you if you dare to lose.
* * *
Jean Pierre Polnareff sits in a cozy pub two blocks from the ice rink, gazing through the window at Montreal’s swirling snow.
On the oak tabletop in front of him stand two beers, barely touched. Water droplets condense and trickle down the mugs, disappearing into the intricate wood grains. A pair of crutches quietly rests against the deck.
Finally, Polnareff raises his honey-colored drink to the light overhead, offering a silent toast to the man in white seated across from him. Bottoms up.
“Jojo, your kid’s got some real talents. His jumps… I see your spirit in him, like yesterday once more.”
“Jojo” lowers the brim of his cap and takes a sip in acknowledgment.
“Yare yare… Josuke has much to learn still. Your student is the next one, right? His son.”
Polnareff doesn’t respond immediately but instead shifts his gaze to the shiny TV screen beside the bar. He taps his fingertips on the table and gently shakes his head.
“Indeed. But I think he’s much more like you.”
Bravery, ambition, and reckless valor.
So I wish him luck.
Win, Giorno Giovanna.
* * *
Fugo skips his class.
He pondered for a long while about where he should watch the competition. Ultimately, he decided to hide in the piano room.
The phone rests on the black music stand, disconnected from the University WiFi by eduroam to avoid signal delays, linked instead to his data. Honestly, he doesn’t even know how he should feel watching this competition. His former teammates, Bucciarti, Abbacchio, and Narancia… must also be watching behind a screen like him at this moment.
In the months after leaving this sport, Fugo denied almost anything related to figure skating. He stashed away his skates and training suits. Sometimes, he was afraid to look at the old calluses on his ankles. Fate had once reached out to him, but he refused. The white bird flew away, leaving him alone in the same spot.
He feels grieved and ashamed of his cowardice,
Sorry, everybody.
Fugo slowly raises his head from the hands covering his face.
* * *
“Bucciarati! Abbacchio! Hurry, hurry! ”
Narancia reclines on the hospital bed, waving his little hands, with a pillow thoughtfully propped behind his waist. His fractured right foot dangles on a traction belt, the plaster cast wrapped around it appearing extra cumbersome on his somewhat slim build. Abbacchio has just finished peeling an orange. He slices a piece off and puts it into the carefree kid’s mouth.
It started to rain in Naples last night. Abbacchio’s eyes shift between the 25-inch TV screen and the wind-blown curtains. His fingers inadvertently clasp into the grooves of the metal bed frame.
“That little brat… ”
“Trust him, Leo.”
Abbacchio turns around, Bucciarati stands at the door. Five minutes ago, Bucciarati was going to get something to drink for Narancia. Now he shakes his head, both hands empty.
“All the vending machines downstairs seem broken. Don’t know what happened.”
“Narancia is fine. He can just eat another apple.”
Seeing Bucciarati is going to take the fruit basket, Abbacchio stands up and grabs an apple before he does.
“It’s okay, let me do it.”
“Careful that knife handle —”
Bucciarati hasn’t finished the sentence, the sharp blade detaches from the wooden handle, falling straight down, grazing just beside Abbachio’s ankle, and nailing half of the apple into the floor.
* * *
The frozen wind gusts through the garbage-filled dark alley behind the ice rink, affixing a few wet fallen leaves to the graffiti-covered streetlight pole. Next to the pole, there’s a rusted door left ajar all year round, leading to a small, inconspicuous building.
The office on the second floor is now absurdly crowded. Formaggio holds the remote control. Illuso, with his hair untied, sits on the carpet in front of the dressing mirror. Sorbet and Gelato lean back in their armchairs. Pesci, though not entirely understanding how scoring in figure skating works, is so nervous that he can’t stop gasping. Meloni bows his head to sew an unfinished costume. After removing the unsatisfying stitches once again, the fabric remains in the same shape as it was hours ago.
Two seats are still empty. One belongs to Risotto, whose whereabouts are unknown. The other occupant claimed in the morning that he wanted to have some “personal time” and departed. No one dares to ask the question:
Where is Prosciutto?
Prosciutto has just left the Hitman’s rink, his jacket adorned with engine oil and ice chips. Their equipment is so old that the rink is perpetually coated with a layer of unfrozen water. In recent years, resurfacing the scraps and grooves on the ice has become an additional task for Rissoto, apart from being their coach. In Rissoto’s absence, the melted water gradually tends to overflow. Yesterday, Formaggio locked up the rink. Prosciutto attempted to fix the cooling pipes himself, but it took longer than expected. When the rusty screw nut shattered into pieces under the wrench, he realized with frustration that he would have to stay here for another night.
If I had known this, I might as well have watched the game with them…
As he ponders this, Prosciutto halts, turns around, and heads in the opposite direction.
This pile of junk is not worth fixing anymore.
They should have replaced it a long time ago.
* * *
Giorno Giovanna stands in the shadow.
He hears the clamor, not far away. Wind carries the cold air, which he breathes in, stinging his throat and lungs slightly. Light flickers at the end of the corridor, casting a bright white reflection on the synthetic resin floor.
His golden hair rests on his shoulder, floating above the black undertone of his training suit.
It's about the time.
The blonde clenches his fists, then quickly relaxes them. He takes a deep breath, something ignites in his green eyes.
His skates, blades still wrapped by the protector, glide soundlessly across the floor as he firmly steps toward the light.
Beneath the red-and-blue skate protectors, a pair of golden blades is ready to shine.