Archive of Our Own

The 2010–11 figure skating season began on July 1, 2010, and ended on June 30, 2011. The competition was originally assigned to Nagano, Japan, and later moved to Tokyo, to be held from March 21–27 at the Yoyogi National Gymnasium with the Japan Skating Federation as the host organization. It was postponed in the wake of the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami and later reassigned to Moscow, Russia.

The season was also the start of a new Olympic cycle, after the Vancouver Games and the legend of Nakahara Chuuya (age 16) winning the first gold in Japan since Fukuzawa Yukichi.

April 1, 2011 : KOSE Shin Yokohama Skate Center

When Dazai walks into the venue, the usual wave of chill air hits him in the face. On a Friday afternoon, the place is desolate, which makes for a strange sight. Dazai is used to the rink being filled to the brim with kids and adults and screams—either classes or club training—some friends hanging out at the arena for some reason, deciding to freeze instead of enjoy the spring sun... They don’t have a reason to be here, freezing their asses off. Dazai has it, like it or not, but today he’s not sure about being ready to face said reason.

Schoolbag in hand and—not—ready to face a hurricane, an earthquake, or whatever natural disaster Chuuya had decided to turn into this afternoon, Dazai walks down the stairs, searching for his usual bench to throw himself in as he observes Chuuya. He wonders what version of him he’ll find today: fire licking the surface of the ice, or just a gust of wind dancing smoothly across the ice.

What he finds instead is a water current, flowing and fluid, elegant as ever, dancing on the side of the rink Verlaine rents for his brother.

He can see him from the highest point of the row of seats; he’s just a small dot moving across the ice, red and black against the pale atmosphere of the rink. No one else but a few parents are there at this time. It is not like the club has any other big skaters on the circuit right now, so the rink is Chuuya’s and Chuuya’s only. For the rest of the members, the season is already over. None of them got their Worlds's minimums this season. 

The quiet April afternoon reflects itself in the rink. Spring is finally starting to make itself known with warmer weather and flowers blooming in every tree, along with the freckles on Chuuya’s face. He’s a spring kid after all, Chuuya; he blooms with flowers and decays each time winter arrives again, even if he’s made to live on the ice.

For Dazai's cold-blooded body, the quiet April afternoon warmth is still not enough. Chuuya has already started to wear the summer uniform to school, while Dazai is still happily wrapped in his jacket and layers. Maybe befriending a figure skater wasn’t his best idea, but Chuuya would say that not a single one of his ideas is good. So, at seventeen, he spends half of the time in an ice rink, freezing to the bone and getting nosebleeds from the dry air. At least Chuuya got him a free pass, since he never actually skates.

When he reaches the end of the stairs and throws himself into the closest bench, Dazai does it with their eyes nailed to Chuuya. Taking the already big pile of homework teachers were throwing at them, Dazai sits in his usual spot, legs crossed and his notebook on his lap, but they ignore it so he can observe Chuuya slide gracefully across the ice.

Maybe he should be focusing more on school. After all, it was the first week of their last school year, and everyone said that this would be their last year of freedom and that life waited ahead of them. Dazai wasn't in the mood for everyone to talk about their future, so his brain had shut itself down and ignored Kunikida's talk about college and entrance exams.

Chuuya had left even earlier, skipping club activities completely to go to the rink after his brother called him. Dazai could only hear screams through the phone, and now here he was, not even knowing that the fight was about this time because, even after years together, angry French was still out of his range of understanding.

But the fight was bad, and when Chuuya was angry, the ice could tell it. Small fragments are flying everywhere instead of smooth strokes. Angry lines follow his path across the rink, and they seem deep enough for someone of Chuuya’s size to fall inside and be trapped forever.

He hasn’t noticed Dazai yet. With headphones on and eyes closed, Chuuya doesn’t need to look at the ice to go through his spin combinations, and Dazai recognizes it as the middle section of his short program. His hands point to the sky as he turns around, legs crossed and hands placed perfectly; there’s not a single line in Chuuya's body out of the place they should be.

But then he dismounts the spin faster than he should before he starts gliding backward. Flying entry, spin sequence, double Axel. Dazai has the layout of the program memorized, and he knows that now comes the last jump of the program. Maybe he doesn't know if it’s a Loop or a Lutz, but there he goes. Chuuya makes a quick, small turn, extends one of his legs, and then flies across the ice. But as soon as he takes off, Dazai notices that something is wrong.

It’s not right; Chuuya stumbles for a moment before it, and when he flies across the ice, it’s not fast enough. He sees it in Chuuya’s face.

Chuuya knows that he is going to fall, but he doesn’t even brace himself for it. His body hits the ice loudly and hard. It resonates across the empty venue, followed by the sound of Dazai’s books hitting the ground when he stands.

The small class of kids turns around to look, and some of the parents stand from their seats, but the instructor is quick to call their attention back to her, and the kids calm down. Falls are usual in such a place; there is nothing new to see, even if the one falling is Chuuya Nakahara.

But even if it’s usual, it’s still scary. Dazai's legs don’t move, and he doesn’t run into the ice. But he counts ten agonizing seconds until Chuuya rolls to his back, lying on the ice sprawled like a starfish. He can see the way his chest moves fast with short breaths as he tries to recover from the impact against the hard surface.

Chuuya punches the ice before sitting down, his eyes finally roaming over the boards to find Dazai’s standing form, looking at him like a dead fish. With a sigh, he stands again, dusting his pants out of the ice as if nothing happened, and he skates to the barrier. His edges are deep enough to make ice fly around with each slide of his feet. 

There's a shadow cast over his face, and Dazai knows for sure that he wasn’t mad when he kissed him goodbye two hours ago. He waits for Chuuya to reach him.

His boyfriend leaves the headphones and gloves against the barrier; he drinks the whole bottle of water Dazai offers him, and he gets it across the ice with a scream, making the kids look again.

Luckily enough, they’re starting to leave the rink.

“Are you okay?”

“Heavenly,” Chuuya unties his hair, trying to detangle it with his fingers. He is flushed down his shoulders, both from the effort and frustration. “Are you not going to ask anything more?”

“I'm going to wait until you're disarmed,” they say. Dazai has no intention of dying under a sharp knife. Thank you. “But if you insist... What’s wrong?”

“I’m selected for Worlds.” They walk together, Dazai on his side of the barrier, and Chuuya gliding across the ice until they reach the door. “Paul told me that I made it to the team.”

“And that’s bad because...” Dazai offers his arm to Chuuya, so he can use him for balance as he places the guards over his blades. But he doesn’t grab the guards and just walks away. That’s bad for the skates, Dazai thinks, but he’s not going to poke at Chuuya's already bad mood.

“Can it be bad, and that’s it? He didn’t even consult me!”

“Because if the team wants you, you go Chuuya,” Verlaine’s voice joins them, and Dazai tries to contain a sigh. “Stop acting like a kid and go back to the ice; we have three weeks until then.”

But he is a kid, Dazai wants to say.

They’re kids, seventeen, dealing with high school and final terms, and searching for what college they want to attend. He can’t even imagine how hard it must be to balance all that with Chuuya’s other responsibilities as a professional athlete.

“I'm not acting like a kid, Paul! I’m telling you I don’t want to take part in that event!”

“Go back to training, Chuuya. You spent two months out of the ice; we need you back in shape as quickly as possible.”

“If you had allowed me to go back to training sooner, we wouldn’t have that problem.”

“Your ankle needed a break.” For once, Dazai agrees with Verlaine. Chuuya’s ankle was purple when he came back from Taiwan, a nasty thing to see, but he recovered quickly. “We got an extra month with them moving Nagano to Russia, so we’ll better use that time to fix your program before Worlds.”

“But it’s during my birthday!”

“It is my fault that they canceled it?”

“Is it mine?”

Dazai can feel the headache growing behind his glasses.

He loves Chuuya; he truly does, but the screaming matches with his brother are something he can’t deal with.

“I think you should calm down.”

“And you say you’re not acting like a kid?" he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Verlaine sighs like Chuuya is the insufferable one and not him. “You are a professional athlete. Go through the short again. No complaints.”

“No.”

“Chuuya, don’t test my patience.” Verlaine is not a bad coach. He’s usually hard on his brother, demanding, and stubborn. There’s no place for discussion when Paul Verlaine steps into his classical skater coach role. He doesn’t bend, and he doesn’t change the choices he has already made. “You’re messing a spin; what are you going to do at the event? Mess the whole program? From the beginning, now!”

“No,” Chuuya says again. There’s a defiant glint in his eyes, and Dazai feels like he’s watching a tennis match, going from one player to the other. When Chuuya takes off his skates, pushing them against Verlaine’s chest, Dazai wants to run away from the storm he sees coming. “I am tired of this bullshit.”

“Chuuya Nakahara, don’t take one step more!”

“Or what? You’re going to ground me?” Chuuya rests a hand on his hip, and his voice sounds mocking in a way he rarely uses with his brother. “I already leave under curfew, Paul. I don’t give a fuck.”

"Chuuya, go back into the ice!”

“I’m not going to listen to you!”

“The team chooses you, and you’re going Chuuya. You’re not saying no to this opportunity.”

“Stop pushing your stupid dreams into me!” Chuuya screams, her voice cracking, his arms waving, and his face flushed red. “I’m not your fucking clone! I’m not here to achieve what you failed to do! Because, in case you don’t remember, I already did that!”

“Chuuya, don’t say something you can regret,” his brother warns, his voice cold and sharp. “I’m doing what is best for you.”

“Sure! Keep pushing, then! See what I can do before you break me!” Dazai can’t look; he doesn’t dare to lift his eyes from the floor. “Maybe you can ruin my career like you ruined yours!”

And just like that, he grabs his bag and walks out of the venue, skipping steps to reach the door. Chuuya closes it so hard that it resonates in the space, leaving Dazai alone with his future brother-in-law.

“I should...” He says he is starting to pick up his things. “I should go.”

“Go talk some sense into Chuuya.” Verlaine sits on the bench. He's angry, and Chuuya and him wear their emotions in the same way. Blushed cheeks and eyebrows frown; they’re more alike than they think. “That fucking brat...”

But Verlaine holds Chuuya skates gently and starts cleaning the blades with care, making sure the metal is dry and clean before wrapping them with the blade covers.

“You should be the one talking to him,” Dazai says as he puts the last book in his bag. “He’s your brother.”

“And for some reason, your boyfriend,” Verlaine says, looking tired. For once, Dazai almost feels sorry for him. He rubs his left knee, sighing, before standing again. “And he listens to you.”

Sometimes he does. Dazai knows that Chuuya is stubborn, but he’s right; sometimes he listens to him.

“Goodbye Verlaine.”

If the man says anything else, Dazai doesn’t hear it.

He walks out of the venue, his legs carrying him to the park nearby. His instincts never fail him, and that is proven to be true once again when he sees Chuuya sitting on one of the swings, still putting on his sneakers. Running here only in his socks doesn’t seem like something nice to do, but Chuuya is stupid most of the time.

There’s tension still lingering over his body, but that one is not strange; Chuuya has been tense like a spring for months now, and it looks like Dazai is the only one seeing it.

It’s been a tiring year for him; facing the post-Olympic season has been way harder than he expected. All eyes were on him, and everyone wanted to see what else the first Japanese man to win an Olympic medal since Yukichi Fukuzawa had to offer after already reaching the top of the sport.

At sixteen.

Chuuya had given them what they wanted, podium after podium, medal after medal. Even like that, people had been disappointed; they wanted to see more, but efficiency and consistency got boring after a while. The only small mistake Chuuya had committed this season was grabbing a bronze medal instead of a gold one at the Four Continents. Chuuya was at the top of the world—seventeen now—and had already won everything a skater can win. 

People wanted to see the fall of the star that would lead to an epic climb back to the top, but Chuuya hadn’t given them the pleasure of seeing him fall; it was like nothing could sweep him from his feet. Or at least, that was what he let everyone think. 

Dazai (and maybe Adam, but he barely counted as Chuuya's therapist) were one of the few people who knew the pressure that Chuuya was under and how it affected him behind closed doors.

“Hi...”

“If Paul sends you, I don’t want to talk.” Tying his shoes with more strength than necessary, Chuuya chooses to ignore him. “Leave me alone, Osamu.”

“I’m here on my own accord,” more or less. He knows when to give Chuuya his space and when to push a little. “Chuuya I-”

“No.”

“What?”

“Don’t try to convince me about it.” Chuuya’s elbows rest on his knees, and he hides his face in his hands; his next words are muffled because of it. “I’m not going back.”

It’s strange to see Chuuya like this.

All slumped and tired.

Chuuya is a hurricane, always moving, always strong, bright, and shiny. Dazai hates seeing him silent and small. Chuuya is not made to be silent; he is loud and annoying, and he should be laughing and fighting.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Were you crying?”

“No,” the crack in Chuuya’s voice is more than enough to know that it’s a lie. “I’m fine, Osamu, go home.”

Sitting in the other swing, his hand reaching for Chuuya’s shoulder but not touching him yet, Dazai tries to put his thoughts in order before talking.

“Do you want to withdraw that bad?”

“Yes.” Both hear another lie in Chuuya’s voice. “I hate it. I don’t want to go.”

Silence falls over them, thick and dense.

Dazai keeps his eyes on Chuuya. On the tense lines of his muscles and on the way his hair is still damp from sweat and ice. There are purple bruises already blooming on his arm, maybe from the fall from earlier. When his hand finally rests over his shoulder, Dazai can feel the trembling that shakes his partner.

“Then don’t go.” It sounds so easy when he says it. Dazai knows all about Chuuya’s world. He knows that Chuuya’s life as an athlete doesn’t stop when he gets home; he knows that public image goes far away from just the ice rink; and he knows how much Chuuya’s teens have sacrificed for this dream. “Stay here; we can go for hot pot with the class; celebrate your birthday... You only turn eighteen once.”

They usually get the chance to do it. Skating season finishes in June, but after Worlds, there are only small events left that he can skip. Chuuya’s schedule is almost empty event-wise after March, and then June is also a chill month for him. Both of their birthdays fall more or less out of season; they’ve been celebrating them together since they were six, and not being able to do it feels unnatural.

The first time it happened was last year, when Chuuya had to go to a training camp in the States, not because he wanted to, but because it would have been bad for his public image to say no to the invitation. Not everyone is allowed into the F. Scott Fitzgerald camp for Olympic stars.

“We both know that I’m going, right?” Chuuya asks, still not looking at him. That only leaves Dazai with the choice of moving so he can sit in front of him. “This is how things are going to be now.”

The ground is cold under him, so he is glad of the warmth of Chuuya’s hand when he takes them between his. That finally gets Chuuya to look at them; the eyebags under his mismatched eyes are so deep that they’re almost purple.

Dazai can read the fear in those eyes.

Chuuya missed Dazai’s seventeenth birthday, and now Dazai is going to miss Chuuya’s eighteenth. It’s something so small that it looks like nothing, but Dazai can see Chuuya’s brain throwing itself out of the rails with no brakes or a way to stop it. If they start to miss birthdays, how long will it take until they miss everything?

“It should be your choice to make Chuuya,” but it never is. “You can say that you’re sick.”

“People would say that Chuuya Nakahara is scared of losing against Tetchō Suehiro after fighting with the fan-favorite skater for the whole season,” Chuuya says, blowing his bangs out of his face. He sounds tired, so tired, and Dazai just wants to pull him into his arms and hold him there until Chuuya can get his well-deserved rest. “And if I go, they’re going to put me under the microscope to see how I behave around the other members of Team Japan.”

“Hey, it can be that bad; I’m sure they’ll get tired of talking about you soon enough.”

“You haven’t seen it, right?” Chuuya asks, shaking his hand free from Dazai’s so he can grab his phone. When he offers it to Dazai, an entry from a blog is open. “Tross sent it to me this morning.”

Dazai recognizes the flashy font of the title. It’s one of those sports magazines that loves messing with skaters.

“Since when do you listen to this shit?” Dazai asks, and hearing him swear is enough to make Chuuya's head snap back to his boyfriend. “This is fucking bullshit, Chuuya. You know it better than anyone else.”

Chuuya has seen magazines and reporters tear his brother apart since he was a kid. Dazai remembers reporters waiting for Chuuya and Verlaine after Torino 2006, right at their door, ready to ask Paul Verlaine, France's brightest star, about his sudden retirement. 

Chuuya saw the mess that followed his brother's injuries and how the vultures, who called themselves reporters, went after a man who was going through his worst moment.

This is how sports move fans. This is how reporters catch attention and then try to make it the athlete's fault for snapping at them, even after asking a thousand times to have their private lives remain private.

“Chuuya,” throwing the phone to the sand, Dazai’s hands move to cup Chuuya’s checks. “You have been my best friend since we were six; I’ve seen you crawl to the top of the world,” Dazai’s thumb caressed the skin under Chuuya’s eyes, soft and tender. He always touches Chuuya with all the care in the world, even knowing that he’s unbreakable. “I love you and I know you, this is not the only thing upsetting you. What’s wrong, Chuuya?”

Chuuya is someone driven by strong emotions but never likes this. He tends to let the good one’s flow and shut the bad ones in a corner of his mind, throwing pain and bad experiences into a drawer and forgetting about them.

“I...” he starts, and, for a second, Dazai thinks that he’s going to cry. But Chuuya only cries from happiness or sad movies. He had never seen him cry when he should have done it. Dazai has seen him endure painful injuries and stress like it was nothing. The small trembling in his voice is gone as quickly as it arrived. “I just want to be selfish for once.”

Dazai pulls him closer until Chuuya gets down from the swing, arms wrapping around Dazai instead.

“I want to choose and have a life out of all this for once.” When Chuuya lets out a sob, it feels shattering. He bleeds frustration all over Dazai’s shoulder when he buries his head against it. “I’m tired of missing birthdays and school events. I’m tired of never being able to hang out with my friends. I’m tired, Osamu.”

Dazai combs their fingers through Chuuya’s hair, humming softly against his temple.

"The only messages I sent to everyone during this year have been some variation of `no, I can’t hang out with you I have training’ or `Sorry I can’t go tomorrow I wake up at 4 am to catch a plane’,” Chuuya grabs Dazai’s jacket tighter like he feels crumbling into pieces if he lets go. Dazai ignores the wet spot growing on his shoulders. Chuuya is trembling and shaking like a leaf as he cries a pain too big for his body to cry out. “I miss classes. I miss having a normal test. I miss being a normal teenager... I miss everyone, and I miss you the most.”

Chuuya and he had always been joined by the hip.

They’re two pieces, so glued together that everyone—even teachers—thinks of them as an inseparable pack. But since Chuuya came back from Vancouver with a golden medal around his neck, his schedule is even more packed. He trains in the mornings, then goes from the gym to school and then to the rink.

Dazai barely sees Chuuya out of school, and they are neighbors.

It must feel lonely, being at the top of the world just by himself, all eyes on him but no hand reaching towards him.

“Let it out.” He needs it. There’s so much pressure on Chuuya’s shoulder, and not even he is unbreakable. “I got you, babe.”

“I’m sorry.” The words are barely audible between the sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

He keeps apologizing, and Dazai doesn’t know why he’s doing it.

No one should feel guilty for their tears. Chuuya shouldn’t feel bad for wanting to put himself first for once.

“Let’s go home,” Dazai says when the sobbing comes to an end. He kisses his temple, a faint brush of lips against his skin. “Have dinner at my place and stay the night.”

“I have training in the morning.”

“And?” Moving Chuuya slowly so he can look into his eyes, Dazai wipes the remains of tears from his face; his eyes are bloodshot, and, with how pale he is, it looks terrible. “You leave for training when you need it, but stay with me tonight, babe.”

The pet's name is what finally manages to make Chuuya’s lips curve a little. He still looks drained, but at least there’s a small smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

“Can we watch a movie?”

“Sure,” Chuuya suggests. The plan surprises him, but his next words make Dazai laugh.

“The Princess Bride?”

“Woohoo, again?” Dazai hides his face in Chuuya’s hair. It smells like lavender and ice. Breathing in and hugging him closer, they almost melt against each other. “Wait, don't you have it memorized by now?”

“What can I say?” Chuuya says, his hands holding onto Dazai’s arm, pulling his arms around himself. “I'm a sucker for happy endings.”

Rising star or Olympic brother privilege?

Last year, Chuuya Nakahara (17) proved to everyone that Japan still had what it took to win an Olympic medal. After taking the gold from the fan favorites, Nakahara stands in the top rankings in the world, and he’s still there even at the end of the Olympic season.

He took Japan’s golden boy spot for the Grand Prix after Tetchō Suehiro withdrew from it, announcing that he suffered a nasty knee sprain during the games. Tetchō got his revenge during the 4CC, where Nakahara barely managed to grab the bronze, leaving the gold for his teammate and seeing his record get smashed by the Uwajima natal skater, but the battle for the 100 is still going since neither of them managed it during the event.

Now people wonder: Is Nakahara Japan’s new star? Or did he get lucky?

The younger brother of Paul Verlaine (five times France national champion and three-time European champion) and one of the first skaters that took advantage of the ISU 2007 reform, some people still wonder if Nakahara is really such a good skater or if he just got some privileges.

Could he be where he is without the mentioned rule changes? Without the money, he got from his brother's success, which was short but enormous back in his day. Is he a talented skater, or is it just Japan pushing itself back to the top?

This month, during the World Championship that has been moved due to the tragedy that hit Japan this year, we’ll see Nakahara and Tetchō fighting against each other again. Will their animosity cause trouble for Japan to keep the three spots? Would Nakahara, already known for his short temper, cause a scandal?

We’ll keep an eye on Nakahara; is this the season where he finally flops? Or would Verlaine and Fukazawa’s bonus save him from it?

Tatsuya Rion, Golden Rink, April 2011, issue 345.

Full article here

April 20, 2011 : Haneda Airport

Odasaku is the one driving the family to the airport, squished in the back of his old Subaru. They barely fit, and with the suitcases almost busting the truck open and the backpacks over their laps, the family looks silly and stupid. Most of the time during Chuuya’s career, Arthur goes with them; he serves as Verlaine's assistant when they attend a competition or big event, and he acts as a mediator between Chuuya and his brother.

Right now, he sits between them, and the cold war between the two brothers seems to continue since they don’t say a single word during the ride. Chuuya is also gloomy, his eyes looking across the window, hugging the bag that contains his good skates—the black ones, not the old ones he uses for training—to his chest with such a grip that his knuckles are turning white.

Dazai doesn’t know what to say to ease the tension growing inside the car, so he turns on the radio instead.

Lots of sports events have been delayed due to the earthquake that hit us, but the world seems to be going back on track. This week, we’ll finally see the first match of this year's football season. Our Yokohama F. Marinos will open the season playing against-

“Since when do you listen to the sports station?” Dazai asks, and Odasaku just shrugs. His brother doesn’t have a reason for most of the things he does, but sports have never been his thing.

“Kousuke wanted to hear the basketball match,” he says. “Put some music on if you want to.”

But before Dazai can reach for the dial, the two hosts talk again.

Talking about Yokohama, one of our local athletes will be attending the World Championships this week.

“Turn that off, please.” Chuuya opens his mouth for the first time since they got in the car, and he sounds distressed. Finally, after minutes of looking through the window, his eyes meet Dazai’s eyes through the rearview mirror.

“Maybe it’s not about you.”

Nakahara Chuuya, who trains at the Kose Center, will attend the figure skating World Championships with the other five members of Team Japan.

Well, Miura, we all remember when that boy came back from Vancouver with an Olympic medal, so maybe we can expect our local champion to do it again-

The radio suddenly dies, shutting up completely, and Odasaku hits the brakes.

Chuuya is slumped over his brother-in-law, half of his body in front of the car, so he can turn the radio off.

“Chuuya!”

Verlaine yanks his brother back into his seat by the arm, and, when Dazai side-eyes Odasaku, he can see how his brother is as lost as him.

“Apologize!”

“I asked him to turn it off!”

“Guys, it’s fine,” Odasaku tries, starting the car again and turning to get to the airport parking. “Nothing happened.”

Before things can escalate ever further, Rimbaud pushes both his husband and his brother back to their seats, arms above their chests.

“Don’t make a fuss.” Rimbaud sounds tired; he’s the one dealing with the brothers daily, and it must be hard. “Chuuya, be more careful, please; Paul, don’t yell at him.”

And, in an incredible display of maturity, they turn to face the windows, matching scowls in their faces and arms crossed over their chests.

Chuuya is avoiding Dazai’s eyes, but even like that, when he reaches back behind his seat, his boyfriend does take his hand. He offers Chuuya a small squish, hoping he can read it as an attempt to comfort him, and he gets ready to say his goodbyes.

Between the five of them, it is easy to carry all the luggage from the car to the check-in. All is done in the silence that Odasaku and Rimbaud break from time to time, talking about the school they both teach at.

Five minutes before they need to get on the plane, Dazai drags him aside, and Chuuya thinks about how similar it is to the day they had their first kiss.

“Chuuya.” Dazai’s hands rest over his shoulders, but Chuuya’s eyes remain fixed on the white floor tiles. “You’re going to nail it, okay?”

Two weeks after their talk in the swings, and with that thick tension still between them, Chuuya and Verlaine are about to leave for Russia, and Dazai won’t be able to help then. There have been a few heated arguments in their house these days, and living almost wall to wall with Chuuya’s room has allowed Dazai to hear most of them.

Slammed doors made the house shake, and Chuuya sneaked into his bed most nights, telling him about how bad the situation was.

“You’re going to bring home that title.”

Chuuya shifts his weight from one leg to another, unable to stop fidgeting with the cuffs of his Team Japan jacket.

“I don’t want to go.”

“What about being a back-to-back world champion?”

“Stupid high aspirations from ten-year-old me.”

He doesn’t seem to find it funny when Dazai laughs at the way Chuuya is sulking, but he doesn’t pull away when he pulls Chuuya into his arms for a hug.

“Well, you also used to dream about winning the Olympics, and look at you now," said current Olympic champion Chuuya Nakahara. Current Ice Prince. Current favorite specimen to scrutinize. The list of things Chuuya is doing seems to be endless.

“You’ll be back before you realize it, and you’re going to knock them all from their seats.”

I have an idea; Chuuya told him the night before. To piss Paul off.

Then go with it.

“Would you be here?”

“Someone needs to pick you up from the airport and get rid of all the reporters fighting for the slug's attention.” Thin fingers comb through Chuuya’s hair, trying to soothe him the best he can before such a big event. “Your knight in shiny armor would be here.”

“You’re the damsel in distress in this relationship, Osamu.” Parting from the hug, Chuuya seems to relax a little. He finally looks into Dazai’s dark eyes and laughs when the right one drifts to the side. That lazy eye of his never got truly fixed. “You should give me your white handkerchief for luck and cry for my departure.”

“Damsel, lucky charm... How many things am I to Chuuya?”

“Not enough.” It would never be enough of Dazai Osamu in his life, as messy as it can get. “Thank you.”

“Call me when you land; I don’t care if it’s late, okay?”

“Paul got my phone.” He confiscated it last week. He’s only getting it back after Worlds. After taking that gold home, where it belongs, No distractions were allowed until then, and Dazai was the biggest of them. 

“Hotels tend to have phones then,” Dazai combs bright hair behind his ear, and Chuuya has the urge to hold onto him and claim Dazai as his emotional support animal, so they allow him into the plane.

“See you in two weeks, Mackerel,” he says instead. Stepping away from him is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Or maybe he’s overreacting, but he wants to stay. “Don’t annoy anyone to death while I’m away.”

Dazai waves at him, all smiley and happy, and Chuuya is sure about him crossing his fingers behind his back.

“I promise!”

“Liar!” he screams across the airport before disappearing behind a wall and no longer seeing Dazai.

The routine of getting on a plane and flying to the other side of the world is already engraved in Chuuya’s bones.

Verlaine sleeps most of the flight, his head resting against the back of his seat. By his side, Rimbaud is invested in one of his books, and, from time to time, he rests his head against his husband’s shoulder and takes a short nap. They’re crumpled in the small seats, legs bent in awkward angles, and Chuuya knows that, once they land, Verlaine is going to be even more annoying because his leg is going to hurt more than it usually does.

Chuuya sits in two rows of seats behind, too nervous to fall asleep. He should rest; on Monday, practice will begin, and he’s not sure about being ready for it. The beginning of his last semester of high school, added to the intense training for Worlds, has Chuuya on the edge of collapsing at any second. He just wants to sleep for a year, but anxiety is eating him alive, and he can’t manage to rest. 

The woman by his side is invested in one of those romance novels Chuuya always sees in airports. She doesn’t seem to mind Chuuya’s constant fidgeting or the rustling sound his notebook makes each time he tries to find one particular page.

Dazai calls it a diary, even if it’s not. Chuuya prefers to call it his little victory journal, and he gets a new one each season to fill with everything that may cross his mind. This season is covered in penguins sliding in the skies, a gift from Albatross, who thought of himself as the funniest person on Earth. Now that he thinks about it, it's a shame short track isn't held at the same time as Worlds this year. It could be nice to have a friendly face around these days, but none of the Flags were free to fly to Russia.

Shaking his head, Chuuya ignores how badly he misses his friends and stares at the page in front of him. He always writes down annotations on other skater’s programs, about his ideas for music and costumes. Chuuya’s whole life is written in those pages.

Right now, he tries to scribble over the square that is supposed to be a drawing of the rink, picturing where and what he should change if needed. It’s the last event of the season; if he performs like he did at the Grand Prix Final, it should be fine. If he does as badly as he did at the Four Continents, well, he's fucked. 

And he’s tired.

He's drained and tense, and there’s something in his gut that tells him that this program won’t do it and that he needs a change. Paul insists on his Loop being shaky lately, and Chuuya agrees but hasn’t bothered to sit down and tell his brother why. He looks at his brother, sleeping like they hadn’t been in a screaming match a few hours prior, and goes back to his notebook.

He searches for the page where the information about his rivals starts. Competition and rivalry are healthy; everyone says they keep the sport going. But right now, looking at the list of numbers and program layouts that are not his, Chuuya feels his stomach about to give up.

Tetchō Suehiro looks back at him from the page. He’s one of the few skaters that can match Chuuya's insane jumps. Both have the three quads, and Tetchō is insanely efficient at them. He’s the one that scares him the most. He’s a stiff skater; Chuuya can match his tech score with his layout, making up for the jumps with higher levels in everything else, but the winner between them is always a tight match.

Under all their names, under all his rivals, Chuuya writes their weaknesses and strengths. He writes down what he needs to take down from each of them.

Spin faster. Deepen your edges. Polish your turns. His axel is a mess. Bad transitions.

Big, bold letters stared back at him, next to Tetchō’s name.

Chuuya closes the notebook so the red will stop looking back, tucks his legs under his body, and closes his eyes, ignoring the annoying ting of pain that sparks.

Chuuya Nakahara, at his arrival at Moscow airport, “It’s a shame I can’t fight to defend my world title in front of my home crowd; it would be the dream. We’re recovering from tragedy back home, and I’m one of the ones lucky enough to not have been affected by it. Being here is an honor, and I can say one thing: I’ll fight not only for my title but for Japan’s three spots as well.”

Click the link to read the full translation.

April 27, 2011 : Megasport Arena, Moscow, Russia

They leave Arthur in the hotel, getting some sleep since he’s better there than freezing in the arena. He would arrive for Chuuya's skate, he promised, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. Chuuya hopes he does it because today he doesn’t feel like dealing with his brother on his own.

He’s one of the first to arrive at the changing rooms, waving the reporters that lurk around the arena away. He doesn’t feel like talking; he’s tired from the week of training and preparation. He has enough media coverage for a year and if he gets asked about his disastrous performance at the 4CC again, he’s going to throw hands.

As he unpacks the costume for the short to check that he has everything he needs, he thinks that for a program he doesn’t like, the costume is one of the best ones he has ever worn. Piano’s designs are the best in the field, and he’s proud to wear something designed by his friend.

It’s bold and elegant, with red that fades into black, and rose petals embroidered in a pattern that makes it look like wings... It’s one of his best works, and it's such a shame that it’s for Carmen.

Chuuya’s not too fond of the program Kouyou and Verlaine gave him this year. He’s also been prone to skating to whatever he likes, to picking a song and fighting toe and nail for it. But this year Verlaine had been the one to decide on it, and, for once, he and Kouyou had agreed on something.

He was turning 18 and, as a soon-to-be adult, he needed to show that he was ready to change and be a mature skater, so they sent him to the center of the ice, played a fragment of Carmen, and asked him to perform to the music.

It’s not that he dislikes Carmen. He appreciates a good dramatic show, he just... thinks that everyone has skated to it and doesn’t see the point of doing the same things thousands have done before him.

Everyone has skated to Carmen.

Only Chuuya Nakahara has skated for Atsushi Sakurai.

“Hello there!”

The voice makes him turn around, and he recognizes the guy. He’s a new addition to Chuuya’s rival’s notebook, but he doesn’t have much to say about him.

Mark Twain, fresh out of juniors, got the minimums for senior worlds during his nationals and got lucky enough to get a last-minute spot. He was invited to Skate America gala for some reason, and they talked for less than a minute there. One problem about being him is that skaters his age tend to avoid him.

Chuuya was in the arena last year when the guy won a bronze at the junior worlds, and he liked his skating, which was flashy and fun. He, much like Chuuya, has ditched classical music. But where Chuuya prefers to blast people with rock, Twain enjoys pop programs that are funky and chill. Energetic and wild, he has made it through his country's ranks with a flashing smile and funny programs that are starting to reach the whole world. He’s charming, and he has a lot of fans already.

And he’s from Florida. How someone from the land of sun and beaches ends up in an ice rink is something Chuuya is not going to ask.

All the respect Chuuya may have for him is gone when Twain sits down on the bench and opens his bag to reveal a pair of Auras. Kouyou’s chunky Edea pianos are suddenly not the ugliest skates Chuuya has been able to witness in his lifetime.

He waves at him, offers him a formal smile, and goes back to organizing his things as more and more skaters start to arrive. The guys from the smaller federations are the ones that arrive first; they skate in the first group, and some of them look pale as wax.

Chuuya can’t blame them. He has all their names memorized, and almost all of them are in this arena for their first Worlds. Chuuya won’t skate until the last group. Fifth place, luck decided during the order drawings.

That’s almost three hours until then, more than enough time to do his hair and makeup and warmup, but he prefers being early, getting ready, and leaving for the mixed zone before everyone else.

“Sorry.” A hand taps his shoulder, and Chuuya almost jumps to the ceiling. His Japanese is horrendous, with a heavy American accent, but Twain is smiling at him as they have always been friends. “Sorry again.”

“English is fine.” The answer comes to him so naturally. He's the one always changing into English when he talks to reporters or other skaters. No one bothers to learn Japanese when translators are a thing for press conferences. “I spaced out. Do you need something?”

"Can I borrow that?” without the sorry attempt of speaking in a language he hasn't mastered, his voice is even more jovial. “I forgot to pack my makeup.”

“Sure,” he says, handing the guy the small bag where he keeps all his makeup. He should start doing his. And his hair, if he wants to leave before Tetchō or the Russians arrive. He should change into his costume and start pushing the heavy feeling inside his chest away for the cameras. “Suit yourself.”

“Thanks, man.”

Instead of going away to sit on a bench, the guy props himself up next to Chuuya, using a small pocket mirror to draw his eyeliner. Maybe he assumed that they were friends after their small talk during Skate America when Chuuya told him where the bathrooms were.

“You look all gloomy today; is everything fine?”

“Sure.” Chuuya chooses to start dressing so he can ignore the other guy. “Just tired like everyone.”

“Worlds being the last comp of the year is so dumb, we’re all tired by the time it arrives.”

“Nothing can be done about it.”

They fall into a strange silence as Chuuya gets into costume, trying to shield himself from all the voices that fill the room and are starting to get overwhelming. Chuuya is used to the feeling, but today it feels a little bit worse than other times.

He’s surrounded by people in the dressing rooms, and this place and this kind of atmosphere used to make him feel wonderful. Hearing friends and teammates talking in different languages with thick accents and mispronounced words that no one complained about. Skaters talking with their coaches or helping each other with costumes.

Today it feels like too much; his head is clouded and heavy. Maybe he should have lied to Verlaine about having a migraine and stayed at the hotel until it was his turn to skate.

“Want me to zip it?” Twain asks, handing him the makeup bag back. He surely looks eye-catching, dressed in neon pink and electric blue. The zebra belt and the sunglasses pushing his bangs back are something, for sure.

“Thanks...” They look ridiculous next to each other. Chuuya in his black and red suit, all dramatic, next to an 80s fever dream. “Your free program during junior worlds was impressive, by the way. Getting that bronze after that short... I couldn’t believe it.”

Chuuya is not good at small talk; he’s not good at making new friends. He was, when he was six, less of an awkward idiot. But now anxiety bubbles inside his chest each time he tries to talk to someone new.

“Says the Nakahara Chuuya.” Twain steps back as soon as the zipper is done, and Chuuya is glad. Paul is usually next to him, helping him get ready; he doesn’t like strangers touching him. “Even with the missteps you were like, the best out there at 4CC, you deserved the gold.”

“I had a bad day...” He keeps avoiding the other’s face, busy with his makeup now, looking at how pale he is. Chuuya doubts his concealer will hide the purple bags under his eyes. “But thank you.”

“Can I be honest with you?” Twain takes a seat next to him, not waiting for permission. His sunglasses are down now, but Chuuya can feel his eyes on his skin.

“Sure,” Chuuya’s patience is ruining dry; he doesn’t want to do any small talk with anyone.

“I’m quite a fan, but my brothers are the ones sending me to talk to you.” Twain scratches his nape like all his confidence went away in a second. “Would you... sign something for them? Or take a photo with me or... something?”

“You have sibblings?” Chuuya finally looks at the guy, still tense but a little less wary. “How old are they?”

“They’re thirteen, Huck and Tom.” Twain shows him a picture of two kids, clearly twins, who look a lot like him. They also look like little bastards. “I know you must be so tired of fans, but...”

“It’s fine.” He doesn’t mind having fans. Or admirers. Or whatever. And this guy seems nice. “Let me try to look a little more presentable, and we can take a picture.”

He opens his sports bag; he always carries his notebook and some pencils, just in case a new idea for a program hits him. Today, he just takes a page from it and writes a small note for the kids.

“Would that be enough?”

“Oh, the little shits are going to love me,” he says, grinning in a way that reminds Chuuya of Albatross. He wonders if his friend will be watching, if the Flags are hanging out in the Old World to watch Chuuya skate. “Thank you.”

A little smile tugs at the corner of Chuuya’s lips.

Maybe some small talk can be good sometimes, Chuuya thinks as he puts everything back into his bag. He searches for his water bottle, and, as he rummages through his things, he takes another pill from the blister and swallows it dry.

Two hours later , Megasport Arena, mixed zone.

Chuuya needed to win. That was always the goal in competitions, of course, but this time, it wasn’t so much a goal as a necessity. Prove his brother wrong. Prove the reporters wrong. Prove to everyone that he’s not done yet and that, even though he would prefer to be at home, the legend of Nakahara Chuuya has just started.

A second gold at Worlds seemed like the perfect way to claim back all he had accomplished in the past years and make sure everyone knew that those victories were only his.

That being said, and with anxiety bubbling inside his chest, Chuuya was about to throw up. For what felt like the first time in his life, he was feeling nervous before a competition.

Paul, Arthur, and everyone at the rink back home, even Osamu and all his friends, ignored one big thing about what had been troubling him these past months.

He’s not in his best form. He hadn't trained as much as he would have liked since the 4CC, and his ankle had been a pain ever since. A few months ago, after the plane from Taiwan landed, Paul took him to the doctor, and the woman put Chuuya on bed rest for two weeks. The problem was that, to everyone's dismay, Chuuya was a better liar than everyone expected.

Chuuya’s ankle was still throbbing painfully all the time, and when he returned to practice after two weeks of rest, the first jump he attempted had Chuuya almost passed out from pain.

Almost. Nothing gritted teeth and some creative transition couldn’t fix, distracting Paul from the small moment where his foot had almost given up under his weight.

Paul didn’t notice anything strange, or maybe he didn’t care in his anger, but that didn’t seem like something Paul would do.

Ironically, Osamu had been the closest one to find out, but he had managed to foul even his boyfriend and train every day like he always did.

“Nakahara.” A deep voice startles him out of his thoughts, and Chuuya stops the music that is blasting through his headphones. Chuuya offers the guy his best grin and hopes he knows that it means I’m going to crush you.

Tetchō is wearing his team red jacket and has the same boring expression he always does.

“You’re here. I was starting to worry I missed some announcement about your withdrawal.”

That would save Chuuya lots of trouble, but of course, Tetchō is here to annoy him. He appreciates a good rivalry, and the tug-of-war he has with Tetchō is a great incentive, but that doesn’t mean he likes talking to him.

“You are the one that should withdraw.”

“Why would I? I’m not scared of you.” The grin on his face grows ever wider. Today is not his day, and Chuuya is not in the mood to deal with cocky idiots from the Hunting Dogs’ club. “You got gold at Nationals and Four Continents. I won the Grand Prix Final. We need to decide who takes the crown back to Japan, don’t we?”

“Withdraw. You shouldn’t be here.”

“You can’t be serious, and everyone tilts me as the rude one?” Chuuya hisses, glancing around the room. Aside from the two of them and Twain stretching in a corner, there’s nobody around to eavesdrop on their conversation. They’re the last group to skate; soon it will be over—the season and maybe Chuuya’s career if he doesn’t win. “I’ve worked hard the past few weeks to be here. The team wants me here, so put your opinion wherever it fits, dude.”

He had to win, like it or not. This spot was his and only his to rule. He was Chuuya Nakahara, Olympic champion. He was Chuuya Nakahara, about to be a World champion. Day after day, he had practiced that Loop to polish it in time for Worlds, knowing it would be his mightiest weapon against Tetchō’s quads.

And day after day, his Loop would get worse. He kept landing it wrong, and each day his ankle screamed, and Paul told him to repeat it again and again until he no longer remembered the concept of pain.

He had not managed to land it cleanly yet. Not since Taiwan and the fall in the short.

But before he could say something more, a staff member called them into the rink. Taking a deep breath and ignoring the lump in his throat, Chuuya follows everyone else into the arena.

“You’re here.”

“You still need my help, Chuuya,” Paul says, clad in black today, already ready for Chuuya’s career funeral. Or maybe he’s just being dramatic. “And you can do it.”

He offers Paul his training jacket, and he hears the screams and feels the flashes of cameras when the new version of his Carmen costume is revealed to the world. It seems like people love it when men's costumes are more than plain shirts, and Chuuya always gives them what they want, even if the ISU doesn't like it as much. 

“Two warm-up powerlaps. All the doubles, and you come to the boards, okay?”

Light starts to dim, color shines across the arena, and Chuuya nods, giving Paul his guards too.

This is the moment of truth. Chuuya stands behind the Spanish skater and heads off to the ice with renewed strength. The routine is engraved in his bones by now. Standing along with the other skaters from his group. Smile at the audience, blow kisses in general directions, and look as friendly and harmless as possible.

When the light is back, Chuuya begins to skate, ignoring the announcer's voice and whatever they’re saying about him. He looks for Tetchō, who is jumping quads easy as breathing, but to Chuuya it doesn’t seem impressive. Not when the guy needs to skate half of the rink to prepare for his triple Axel.

He listens to his brother.

Two laps.

Six doubles.

Easy.

His ankle throbs, but the painkiller he took sooner is still dulling the pain, and it makes it easier to skate to his coach.

“You’re stiff,” he says, before greeting him. “Your lines are ugly.”

“My lines hadn’t been ugly since I was eight, Paul.”

“Then you should go back to novice,” his brother scans the rink. He looks as nervous as Chuuya feels. His brother is not an idiot. He knows what everyone is saying, and he knows the rumors about Chuuya Nakahara's last performance are about to happen.

“I’m sorry, coach. I will do better during my program,” he promises, offering his brother a lopsided grin. The kind of ones he finds annoying.

“Good,” he says simply, and then he gestures towards the ice. “Keep warming up; don’t waste your time. Get all your body loose and relaxed, Chuuya.”

That’s something he can do.

Chuuya pushes himself away from the boards and closes his eyes.

He drinks it all in.

The smell, the sounds, and the way the arena vibrates around him.

This is what he loves most about skating; this is what makes it worthwhile. Standing here instead of in Yokohama with his friends, with Osamu… It is worth it when he jumps a triple Axel and the arena roars.

The sound washes away his worries for a moment, and when the warmup is over and he needs to leave for the Italian skater to open the last group, he feels way better.

“Well done.” Paul gives him the guards and the jacket and guides him toward the mixed zone with a hand on the small of his back. “I want to see that in the short, not whatever those first minutes of warmup were, okay?”

Chuuya nods and steps away from Paul.

His brother still sounds serious, like he’s still mad at him, but at least he’s talking to him. With how bad things had been the past few weeks, Chuuya was ready to step onto the ice without any advice from his coach.

Instead of focusing on the rink, Chuuya sits on the cold ground, closes his eyes, and tries to keep himself in the same headspace he felt during the last minutes of warm-up. Relaxed, on top of the world, ready to take everyone by surprise. Another few minutes go by, and then it’s his turn to enter the rink. He gave the Spanish skater a thumbs-up as he passed him. He hadn’t watched his program, but judging by the elated smiles on the man’s face, it was clear that he’d done well.

He turns to his brother as soon as he enters the rink, waiting for the final words of advice as the last flower girl leaves the ice, holding a ton of gifts in her tiny arms.

Paul takes Chuuya’s hands on his, squeezing softly, and Chuuya lets out the deep breath he’s been holding the whole day.

“Be mindful of your lines while you jump. Keep them clean.”

“Play some battle music, Paul.” 

Let's rock this place

He says, and, for the first time in months, his brother smiles at him before letting go of his gloved hands. Paul’s hands rest on his back, and he pushes Chuuya into the ice.

“Next skater. Please welcome to the ice, from Japan, Nakahara Chuuya!” the commentator says in Russian, but Chuuya understands him. He’s been to Rostelecom enough times to recognize the words.

The venue erupts in applause as Chuuya makes his way towards the center of the rink, waving at people and searching for Arthur in the crowd. He finds him, bundled in layers upon layers, and waves at him before taking his starting position.

The judging panel is in front of him. There’s a colorful assembly of flags and banners, some of which hold his face. Pride flags rise when he takes the ice, and Chuuya’s’ heart warms at the realization that so many people came here to support him and the other skaters, traveling to Russia from all over the world. Even with the rumors and even after the Four Continents, people still cheer for him.

Chuuya closes his eyes and waits for the piano to play the first note of the short program.

Carmen, Act 1: «L’amour est un oiseau rebelle »

Chuuya needs to win.

For Paul, failed dreams. For Arthur’s patience. For Kouyou’s trust. For his friends and his fans, and for every single athlete who has looked at him with something akin to admiration in their eyes.

For Osamu.

As soon as the music starts, Chuuya’s eyes snap open, and all tension leaks from his shoulders. His head is empty of unnecessary thoughts, and he allows his body to do what he's trained it to do. To do what he does best.

Perform.

He hopes Osamu is watching.

Skate.

He starts to walk across the ice, making quick edge changes. It’s playful and a bit cocky.

Win.

For a song he doesn’t like, it’s so easy to get lost in it. It’s so easy to allow the music to flow and to move like he’s always been meant to do it.

Chuuya gets lost in the music. He can only hear it drumming in his head and the roar of blood as he performs his spiral, after which he needs to be ready for his first jump. He knows how to act in front of the public, he rises his hands, gesturing them to clap, and they go crazy. 

Exiting the spiral, he makes a quick turn and takes off from the ice, arms raised over his head. The world spins as he performs his first jump of the night. The second he lands the triple Axel, the audience bursts into applause, and he knows that what comes next will work. That the extra GOE for that Rippon is worthy the hours he spent training for it.

The music softens as he lands the combination, quad Toe-triple Toe.

Chuuya’s head feels so light that he no longer thinks about anything else. He knows his quad Toe was just as good as it felt. Chuuya knows when he’s at his best, and right now, he feels like the guy he woke up with this morning is a stranger.

He fights to keep the cocky act going on and to perform his character instead, so instead of pumping his fist in the air, he launches himself into a flying camel spin.

Chuuya feels weightless. With the combination clean, it’s almost over.

The rest of the program goes by in a blur of step sequences, hands running down his body, and cheeky grins directed at the judges. The spins blur his entire vision, and then comes the final jump.

He starts to skate backward and rests his weight on the right foot. Blood roars in his head, the arena is a mess of screams, and then everything is silent.

Chuuya takes off with all the strength that’s left of him. His final jump is his weakest one. The Loop that inhabits his nightmares.

Chuuya sees the red words that he wrote next to Tetchō's name in his notebook: the only way to win, the only way to take back his gold and his crown.

When Chuuya lands, his right foot screams and his ankle almost gives up, but he covers it by going into the sequence of twizzles that leads to the sit-spin. With his right leg extended in front of him, Chuuya folds himself in half until his forehead touches his tight, and he raises his arms behind him. He needs those levels in the spin. He needs those extra points. He needs to show off all the skills he has left inside his body.

Chuuya throws his right hand into the air in the ending position, and he can only hear the audience’s screams. His chest heaves as he looks at the people who are giving him a standing ovation, at the judges who can’t believe what they saw, and at his brother, who is red with fury.

It wasn’t the first time this happened, but it wasn’t any less amazing. Laughing hurts, but it doesn’t stop him from doing so as he offers his bows and blows multiple kisses at the cheering audience. Energy burst through his body.

The roar takes so long to die. Flowers and plushies rain into the venue, and he can hear the commentators screaming in Russian. His arm is still in the air, and he runs from one side to the other. Chuuya jumps, screams, and laughs as the venue calms down.

Chuuya picks up a stuffed dog and a bouquet of red roses before skating to the exit, where Paul waits with an expression that Chuuya can´t decipher.

But he doesn’t care.

He can’t stop smiling.

“What was that?”

He asks instead of congratulating him for his best skate of the season.

Chuuya’s grin grows even wider; he has a crazy glint in his eyes.

“That dear brother,” he says, giving him the dog and the flowers so he can grab the pink blade guard a staff member offers to him, “was a quad Loop.”

Chuuya sits comfortably in the Kiss and Cry, with Paul by his side and the small dog plushie resting on his knees. He pets it absentmindedly while waiting for the results. The fabric is soft, and it reminds him of the one Dazai gifted him during his first junior competition. Lucky tissue box has long been replaced with a new one, a cute slug with a brim hat, but sometimes he misses having the silly dog with him. 

“I’m going to kill you when we get home,” Paul says in French. Teeth gritted and a fake smile for the cameras. “Your days are number lad.”

“Everyone’s days are.”

“You’re in trouble.”

The scores, please, for Chuuya Nakahara of Japan; the scores for the short skate. 

That seems to make his brother silent.

Due to Chuuya’s little trick, the scores have taken longer than usual.

“106.95—that’s a new season’s best. He’s currently in first place.”

Chuuya jaw falls to the floor and he stands so he can walk closer to the screen.

"Those scores are mine?" the mic records him saying. "Is this real?" 

That’s a world record!

That’s the fight for the 100 being over. That’s him, at 17, making history once more.

He just beat Tetchō 99.08 from the Four Continents. The arena roars, and Chuuya thinks that the place is going to crumble down with how the public stands in their seats and applauds.

He can’t breathe.

Chuuya doesn’t know how he’s reacting after that, because he feels out of his body.

So he bows as deep as he can, hands clapped together in front of his chest. He can’t believe it.

He can’t breathe. Tears roll down his face, and he doesn’t notice it until he realizes that he can’t see. He covers his face with his hands and screams.

He did it.

Q: The Loop has always been your weakest jump. Your fall during 4CC happened during the Loop, everyone thought that you were injured and would withdraw. But then, you show up and do this. How long have you been training a quadruple Loop?

C: Half a year. My Loop was over-rotated all the time, so I worked with that, and here we are.

Q: Was the Loop planned from the beginning?

C: No, but if my teammate skated anything similar to what he had done at 4CC, I didn’t stand a chance, so I decided to fight with all I had.

Chuuya Nakahara interview during the small medal press conference

April 28, 2011 : Megasport Arena, Moscow, Russia

Everything felt like a fever dream from the moment he stepped out of the arena. Getting back to the hotel and avoiding tons of reporters would have been stressful without Paul by his side. If he hadn’t been on cloud nine, that’s it.

Chuuya felt like floating, answering questions without really hearing them, and his heart hammered inside his chest, threatening to jump out at any given moment. Without his phone and any close friends near, Chuuya occupied the rest of the day resting in his bed after a scolding shower.

Arthur had knocked at his door, calling him for dinner, but Chuuya wasn’t hungry, and the adrenaline from the day was starting to fade, so he stayed in and slipped under the soft covers. He hadn’t even bothered to look at his notebook again. Instead, he shifted into his usual dreamless nights, and decided that the best course of action before the Free was getting as much rest as he could have.

When Arthur knocks on the door again, it's already morning, and Chuuya is wrapping his foot in bandages as tight as he can get them. The purple bruises are covered by white gauze, and it makes him think of Dazai. His right foot is so swollen that his shoes barely fit.

“Chuuya? We should head to the arena; are you ready?”

“One sec!” He tucks the edge of the bandage, hoping the layers of cloth will keep his feet more or less in place and tires to stand up. It could be worse, he thinks, as he grabs his sneakers.

It could have been his knee or his back. He would have broken his skull against the ice. But he’s fine.

Arthur waits for him at the other side of the door, wrapped in his usual red scarf.

“You’re coming this early?”

“Someone needs to help you into that costume,” he says, taking the sports bag from Chuuya’s hands and throwing it over his shoulder. “And I can do your hair.”

He’s the one who braids Paul’s hair each morning, so Chuuya knows he can trust him, but it still hurts a little. Arthur is here instead of his brother.

But he pushes it all into the back of his head. Chuuya’s all jittery. Even with the drowsiness of the painkillers, he feels electric all over. For once, he stops and talks to reporters. He answers questions, poses for photographs, and smiles at them. He’s the best figure skater the world has ever seen, and today, he believes it.

By the time Chuuya’s hair is tied in a tight braid and his eyes are circled with dark makeup, he has eaten an entire sheet of painkillers to dull the throbbing in his ankle, but he’s ready, brother or not, coach or not.

He’s ready to face the world without his coach. Chuuya will not only defeat everyone but also show Paul that being mad at him for practicing a new quad in secret is dumb and that he’s the one who is wrong about everything.

It was finally time.

After a season far from being his best. After blood, sweat, and tears, it was time to engrave his name on the ice. To make sure everyone knew that Nakahara Chuuya wasn’t a momentary legend and that what he had achieved was going to last,

He had an Olympic gold, a world record, and a ratified first quad.

But he wanted more. Greed had never been his fatal flaw, but now he was hungry for more, and he wanted to feast until he couldn’t take a single more bite.

Today, he would defend his world title.

Today, he would walk out of his venue with all eyes on him, shutting down everyone who dared to say that his glory was just luck and that it would pass.

Chuuya is here to stay until they need to drag him out of the ice by force, and even then, he plans on digging his nails into the ice until he bleeds once more for this sport.

“Don’t be nervous,” Arthur says as he zips his costume. “You can do it.”

“I’m never nervous,” he says, knowing what he’s worth. But maybe he feels a little anxious. Everyone back at home is waiting for Chuuya to succeed, and as he ties the laces of his black Jacksons, he thinks of them and about how he won’t disappoint any of them. “I’m going to win.”

“I’m sure you’ll do.” During their arguments, Arthur tends to take neutral ground, but Chuuya is glad he’s here today. “I have something for you, by the way.”

“It’s not my birthday yet.” April 28th still has a few hours to spare.

“It’s from Osamu.” Arthur places a small piece of black metal over Chuuya’s hand, and he recognizes Dazai’s mood ring, tied to a chain. “He said to give it before the free for good luck.”

Chuuya stares at it.

The ring is part of a set, but Chuuya lost half of it years ago and never got a new one. He closes his hand around it and can’t help but smile at the idea of having a piece of Osamu with him as he takes the world into his hands one more time.

The chain is tied around his neck, and the ring is tucked under the black and white fabric of his swan costume. When Chuuya stares at the mirror, he can’t recognize himself.

After the Olympics, when the Flags took him under their wings, Chuuya started to be bolder. More unique. The soft fabric and the blouses were changed for black and red costumes, mesh and cut pieces, and heavy makeup.

He feels powerful like this, and being dressed in his friend's design is comforting. The fabric is thin, but it warms Chuuya's body in a way nothing else can do, they're here with Chuuya. Dazai, the Flags, and even Adam. Chuuya has that pack of chewing gum he gifted to him after their last session together. 

Dressed as the black swan, there’s nothing he can’t achieve, even if, with how pale he is these days, the dark makeup makes him look scary.

But in the mixed zone, with Arthur by his side, the reality of not having Paul by his side hits him.

There are no pieces of advice today.

“Don’t turn the triples into doubles,” Chuuya says as he claps his hands over his face. “Hips and shoulders in place.”

His hands form a fist, and he hits his legs.

“Don’t fall,” Paul’s voice says in his head as he punches down his legs in his usual routine. “Don’t fear the ice. Respect it.”

Ice is water too; ice is a lot like the ocean. You must respect it because it’s alive, but never fear it.

Paul's words, more than ten years ago, sound in his head as he hands Arthur his jacket and heads for the ice.

Last warmup group.

The only person he worries about is Tetchō. The man didn’t have his best skate yesterday, and with a stumble out of the Salchow, Chuuya has a comfortable gap between them. But he doesn’t want to be overconfident. Chuuya has a barely functional ankle, and Tetchō can break the gap with his jumps without even blinking.

He waits, but Paul is nowhere to be found. He doesn’t approach the board at the last minute to offer him some advice. Even when they fought, his brother had always kept his cool when it came to competitions.

It seems like messing with the program in such a way was Chuuya’s final straw.

But it’s fine.

He’s fine.

Chuuya rests his hand over his heart, where the ring stays tucked under his clothes, and takes a deep breath before stepping onto the ice.

When they call everyone to leave the ice, Chuuya is about to die.

The wait is the worst part: He doesn’t like being the first skater in a group, but being the last one? He wants to throw up, and there’s not much in his stomach but coffee and meds.

Chuuya’s nails draw crescent moons inside his hands, and the sting helps him to calm down. It’s grounding, and it makes him forget about the foot he can’t feel. He can feel his legs and his arms and the blood running down his veins, so who cares?

He stares at the screen that shows the other skaters; he watches how the green room changes occupants; and he holds his breath as Tetchō takes the ice.

The older skater is clad in a black t-shirt and matching pants, which, in Chuuya's opinion, should count as a costume deduction due to the lack of color or interesting elements. But if the ISU wants their skaters to be manly and boring, good for them, Chuuya won’t indulge them.

He’s waiting by the door when Tetchō gets his scores, giving his guards to a volunteer. Tetchō nods at him; he looks so calm and relaxed like he didn’t skate clean his insane free program in front of an arena full of his fans.

“Well done,” Chuuya says, because he’s competitive but likes playing nice.

“I know.”

And he disappears toward the Kiss and Cry, leaving Chuuya alone to enter the ice.

That’s probably his season's best, no doubt. Chuuya stays at the side as the scores are announced, his eyes fixed on the screen that shows his rival next to his coach.

The scores please for Tetchō Suehiro of Japan, the scores for the free skate

“191.03. His total score is 280.63.  He is currently in first place,” the commentator announces, and the arena roars with applause again. Not a record-breaker, but close to it. It was a personal and seasonal best for him, who just destroyed the gap Chuuya had created in the short.

He needs to skate clean, or his crown will be gone.

He needs to beat his own personal best.

“Go there. Make them remember your name,” he says in Paul’s voice as he hits his legs one last time. Work, please work. He begs for his leg, his foot, and the blades that hold his weight in this ice. One last skate, and he can rest. One last performance, and the season will be over. “Go and make them scream.”

In a flash, he remembers Paul’s old coach, that terrifying man, and his words start to drown his brother in Chuuya’s head.

Skate until you break, even in agony, and finish that program.

Oh, he will.

“Last skater of the night, please, welcome from Japan: Nakahara Chuuya.”

He ignores the way they pronounce his name.

He ignores the insane score they announce he needs to win.

He ignores the pain and takes his position, kneeling on the ice.

Swan Lake, the announcer says, but then the drums and the guitar roar in the arena, and Chuuya moves.

Chuuya’s arms rise to the side; he turns in place, still kneeling, and the sound of the edge across the ice makes him feel at home.

As he spins, he starts to get up on his feet and gives a high kick before actually starting to skate.

Let’s rock this place a little.

Music fills his veins, and he thinks about listening to his song at home in his amps, so loud that the whole building trembles, and tries to put that feeling into the ice.

Chuuya smiles at the blur of faces in the audience, hopes that Paul is watching, and prepares him for the opening jump. The take-off for Axel is the cleanest he has performed in years. He lands with his arms still above his head and tries not to scream.

Clean.

That gives Chuuya the energy to push through the combination. The quad Salchow he has been working on since Tetchō got it, in combination with a Loop. It was Paul’s idea to pair the worst jumps together. It’s either a fall or a burst in Chuuya’s motivation for the program.

His right foot screams when he leans too deep into the outside edge, but he ignores it and pushes himself away from the barriers. He raises his arms.

Ina Bauer into the quad-Toe triple Toe combination.

He goes for the transitions Tetchō lacks, the ones Paul took out of the free because the program was way too packed and complicated. But right now, Chuuya doesn’t care about anything but winning.

The jump transitions into a spin. Camel to layback.

His hands move with him. He makes sure the movement goes from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. He changes the position of his hands with the music. People love this part of the program, when Chuuya performs his hipper extended Biellmann, everyone goes crazy. He needs to use his best assets, and his flexibility is one of them.

People have always loved to see flexible men.

The triple Flip and the triple Lutz send sparks down his spine, and his vision goes white for a second, but he pushes through it.

The music changes. Time for the middle of the program.

Two more minutes, and it will be over.

But Chuuya doesn’t want it to end.

He wants to skate in this arena forever and never take off his skates.

So he gives it all in the step sequence: edges deep and covering as much ice as possible. He draws lines against the ice that thousands of skaters have used before him. He’s seen by eyes all over the world as he dances and performs with all his heart the grief of the black swan, who goes mad with anger and pain.

People clap to the rhythm of Chuuya’s music, and he drinks that sound and engraves it into his aching bones.

The music dulls, and Chuuya lands the quad-Lutz triple-Salchow combination.

Chuuya’s spiral covers the ice from one corner to the other as the music rises again, and instead of stopping at it, he gets his body down into a hydroblade. He loves being this close to the ice, having the cold quiet the roar of blood in his ears.

He gets up again and goes for the last jump of the program.

He can do it.

The gold is already in his hand.

Clean. Clean. Clean.

He hasn’t felt this good in his skin for months.

Curve entry. Outside edge. His body screams, but Chuuya pushes himself into the air.

Shoulders. Hips. Arms. Fingers.

Paul’s with him, screaming at him to keep the position as he rotates one, two, three, and four times on the ice before landing. This time, he can’t help it. He throws his fist into the air and screams as he goes for the twizzles. If the audience had been screaming before, it’s nothing in comparison to the roaring approval when he lands the last quad of the program. That should have been another triple Axel, but who cares?

Arms reaching for the ceiling with the music, Chuuya enters the last spin, and, as the music dies, he takes the final position.

Kneeling on the ice, one leg extended to his side and arms raised at his sides, the swan wings are finally free to fly.

Clean. Clean. Clean.

He can barely breathe.

His chest hurts, and his head is spinning.

Chuuya kneels on the ice, his forehead resting against the ice, as he tries to get some oxygen into his system. He kneels in front of the judging panel and feels the urge to cry.

Getting back to his feet is hard.

He notices the rain of flowers and gifts and tries to catch one of the buckets in his trembling arms before bowing to the judges. To the public. To everyone who has led him to this moment: He raises his arms, waves, and screams again.

“Thank you!” I won. “Thank you all!” 

He sees Japanese flags mixed with pride ones. He sees his face and his name, and he sees a crowd of people who are screaming for him.

He doesn’t know what will happen next.

He walks to the Kiss and Cry, flowers in his hands, and sits there alone as the screams die and the scores are announced.

He doesn’t know if he’s crying, if his makeup is ruined, or if he looks like a fool, alone on the small bench. Chuuya barely sees the scores; he barely sees the small SB next to his name, and he doesn’t bother to do the math in his head.

“I won,” he will later discover that he said and that the mics recorded it. “I won!”

Cameras flash, and people ask, and Chuuya doesn’t remember.

He knows someone is hugging him, and he thinks it’s the American skater.

Before Chuuya can notice it, they’re being pushed onto the red carpet of the victory ceremony.

He stands in the center, with Tetchō at his side with the silver and the Spanish skater at his left.

“That was insane,” the guy says in English when he stands next to Chuuya for the photographs. “I’m so happy about sharing my last season with a legend like you.”

“Thanks,” he blinks slowly, still confused and lost and not knowing what to say.

But he accepts the man’s hand to shake and poses with him for the photographs.

Back-to-back world champion and world record holder Chuuya smiles at the cameras that once doubted him.

Results

Men

Chuuya Nakahara, the defending champion, won the short program with a record score, while Tetchō Suehiro placed second after previously winning two bronzes.

2011 World Figure Skating Championships

April 28, 2011 : Chuuya’s hotel hallway, Moscow, Russia

He meets the man on his way back to his room.

Arthur stayed behind, trying to calm Paul down, and he ran away from his brother's fury so he could lie in bed and think about everything that had happened in the past 24 hours.

He was the World champion again.

He had ratified a new quad and broke the 100 breach.

Everything felt like a dream, an out-of-body experience.

That’s why, when a hand taps him on the shoulder, Chuuya feels his body leaving his soul.

“Hello,” the man says. Chuuya doesn’t recognize him, but he knows that the silver watch he’s wearing is expensive when he offers him his hand. “I’m Coach N.”

“N?” He’s too tired to question it. Chuuya knows lots of people with weird names or nicknames. One time, he met a Thai skater named Ice. “I don’t give more interviews. I’m sorry.”

“You know, not feeling your foot is not a good thing.”

“What are you-” When Chuuya looks down, the man’s umbrella is stabbing his foot. He hadn’t noticed a thing. He hadn’t even noticed that the man was carrying it.

“Maybe not an interview, but do you want some advice about broken bones?” The umbrella hit his ankle, and Chuuya had to contain a scream. This time he does feel it, and it hurts. “Maybe not broken, but badly sprained.”

He knows.

That’s the first thought that crosses Chuuya’s mind.

How does he know?

“It’s pretty obvious if you know where to look. Your ankle is not healed yet, the bone set wrongly after the Four Continents, I am right?”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Are you? Did your coach allow you to skate with an injury like that?”

His brother doesn’t know, Chuuya thinks. And he can’t understand how a stranger knows.

Chuuya doesn’t’ trust this man or his smile. But something keeps him nailed to the ground.

“I just wanted to congratulate you, Chuuya.” He gulps down the knot on his throat and offers the man a fake smile. “It would be a shame if your career was cut short like your brother was.”

“You know my brother?” Paul is a famous skater. But this man, N, looks Japanese, and Paul and his coach are French.

“Pan and I worked at the same club; we knew each other quite well." So he’s Paul’s old coach's friend. That makes some sense, they look close in age and probably worked at the circuit at the same time. “And I see you’re following your brother's path.”

“The only path I want to follow is the one to my bed if you excuse me.”

“You won’t last if you keep doing this, Chuuya. What are you doing under the care of a man who allows you to skate with those feet?”

“Leave me alone.”

Paul would never allow him to compete if he knew.

He would have him withdraw the moment he discovered the injury.

“Jealousy is poisonous, Chuuya, and that man is filled with it. He’s pushing you toward the same fate he had.”

A hand on his shoulder stops Chuuya, and he starts to think about throwing hands. He had a tiring enough day as it was.

“Those legs of yours, keep jumping like that, and you won’t last more than your brother.” There it is, the weird smile again. “Take it into consideration, Chuuya. I can see a bright future for you if you make the right decisions.”

He’s handing him a small plastic card, and Chuuya takes it without really stopping to think.

When he blinks, the man is already gone, and Chuuya puts the small card in his pocket.

One weirder experience to add to his list of encounters across the world.

When Chuuya arrives at his hotel room, his phone is waiting for him on his bed next to a note in Arthur’s handwriting.

Good job.

So he takes a shower, rewraps his ankle, and eats another row of painkillers before jumping in bed. It's late in the evening when Chuuya can finally press the green button under Dazai’s icon. Chuuya's hair is still wet from the shower and wrapped in Dazai’s red sweater, he still denies having stolen it from his partner. Chuuya doesn’t need to wait too long before Dazai answers the call.

"Hello, birthday boy...” Dazai’s face on the screen makes Chuuya’s chest feel a little less tight. “I told you the gold was yours.”

Chuuya looks at the left corner of his phone, where Yokohama’s time shines. It’s his birthday in Japan already, even if he’s a few hours before schedule. There's a knot in his throat; hearing Dazai after these days makes him feel tongue-tied and stupid.

“Chuuya?”

“I-” he’s tired. It's been two weeks of smiling in front of the cameras and dealing with his brother, who is still mad at him. It's been his first event in years without a good-luck call from Dazai before jumping into the ice. “I wish I could be there.”

“In my bed? How forward, slug.” Dazai’s eyebrows arch as they smile. His voice is light and happy, and that alone makes Chuuya want to sob like a kid.

He wants to be there.

Chuuya doesn’t need a big party or anyone else; he could be as happy as ever cuddling under Dazai’s blanket, watching a sappy film together until one of them falls asleep, head resting on the other’s shoulder.

But he’s trapped in Russia for two more days, with press conferences and people he doesn’t know, and he feels terrible about wanting to be selfish for one. It would be so easy. To grab his things and run to the airport, he could be in Dazai’s room, and it would still be April 29^th. He could be leaving all this behind and having Paul deal with the aftermath.

Chuuya Nakahara, Japan's new star, is such a self-centered skater, as the headlines would read. Without an explanation, the young skater runs away from both the gala and the banquet. Does the ice prince think of himself above the other skaters?

He can’t do that.

He can’t throw away years of a carefully crafted public image.

“Chuuya?”

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. Chuuya tries to look a little more grounded than he is. “My head was somewhere else.”

He throws the hood over his still-damp hair, pulling the cords until his face is mostly covered by the fabric. It’s childish and stupid, trying to hide from Dazai’s worried gaze, but he doesn’t have the energy to deal with anyone right now.

“Everything fine?”

“Paul is still mad.” He hasn’t been the easiest person to be around these days; Chuuya knows it, but he usually fights with his brother quickly and with no consequences. “And I feel weird; I’m still trying to understand the past two days.”

“You’ll be home soon enough, and after that, it’s off-season time, Chuuya,” Dazai says, his voice gentle and soothing. “Hang out a little longer, okay?”

“It’s not like I can do anything else.” With a shrug, Chuuya sinks further into the bed. “Tell me about your day. I don’t feel like talking.”

He prefers to listen.

Sometimes normal life stuff—school, exams, and lunch break stories—is more appealing than his own life. He could tell them about the event, but Chuuya prefers hearing about Dazai’s day and their mundane day back in Yokohama.

He doesn’t want Dazai to congratulate him or ask about the event.

So Dazai starts talking about their day, about how Yosano has already chosen the medical school she wants to go to, about how Kunikida almost killed them during the club meeting...

When Chuuya falls asleep, he hears the sound of Dazai’s voice soothing him into a dreamless night.

May 1, 2011 : Megasport Arena, middle of the ice rink

When a few hours later adrenaline rushes throw his veins as the music fades out, kneeling on the ice, back against the cold surface, and hand reaching for the lights, Chuuya feels out of breath. He doesn’t feel as bad as the night before; he’s a little calmer and more relaxed, but as he stands, he still wishes he could be home instead.

His gala program, Glorious, has barely any jumps and is more relaxed than anything he has ever skated to. So, when he stands, his ankle feels almost okay.

The past few days have been a rush, but he doesn’t want to stay around the rink once he finishes his performance, so he bows, waves a little to the people who are watching, and turns around to leave his place to the next skater. He had enough interviews for a lifetime, and, even if he’s happy about the medal that is already placed in his suitcase, he needs a full month of vacation.

But the moment he turns around, he’s faced with Tetchō gliding in his direction, wearing a silly fluffy hat, and carrying a cake in his hands.

So Chuuya doesn’t have another option but to freeze on his stop.

“Nakahara turned eighteen on April 29,” a voice says through the speakers. “It looks like his teammates are a little late, but happy late birthday to you!”

Chuuya looks at the other skater, but his face is plain and unreadable; even with the silly bunny hat, he looks serious. Chuuya knows that he should reach for the cake or say something, but the spotlights are pointed at them, and he doesn’t know what to say.

He has already received his fair share of happy birthdays. Both fans on Twitter and messages and calls from his friends. The Flags spent two hours on the phone with him while he watched the rhythm dance from the comfort of his hotel room.

“I... thank you.”

“Happy birthday,” the other skater repeats. “We didn’t know it was the other day, sorry.”

“No need to apolo-”

“Chuuya!” A third voice interrupts him, and Mark Twain bolts into the rink, grinning like an idiot. “You should have told us!”

He can just stand there, confused, as Tetchō tries to light the candles and Twain runs laps around the rink, asking for something. Chuuya doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he hears his voice through the speakers.

A mic.

He was searching for a mic.

“Everyone! One, two, three! Sound check!” he screams. “Now, everyone, I want to hear you!”

And suddenly, there’s a whole stadium singing Happy Birthday to him.

Q: We saw your brother alone during the free; have there been any problems between you two? You’re known for having a short fuse, even if that gives us so many fun moments to watch.

P.V: Sadly, I was feeling sick during my brother's skate. I’m proud of his performance, and we’ll keep working together to deliver more results like the one we had today.

Q: Anything to say about that new quad?
P.V: My brother is insanely talented and hardworking; if someone can push this sport forward, it is him.

Paul Verlaine answers some questions upon his arrival at the arena for the gala. Click the link to read the full translation.

May 2, 2011 : Chuuya Hotel, two hours before the closing banquet

For his first banquet, Chuuya wore a suit that belonged to his brother. It wasn’t fitted, and it was big on him. He had looked ridiculous, but he had been so happy about wearing a suit instead of a dress.

Today, after two years of knowing the Flags, Chuuya is more confident in his own body and can say that he feels happy wearing his skin. He puts on his leather pants and his beaten-up Doc Martens and feels good about himself.

He may not look like an ice princess, but Chuuya never tried to be one.

Chuuya is all dressed up for the closing banquet, and when he knocks at his brother’s hotel room door, Arthur is the one opening it.

“Can I talk to Paul, or is he still mad?” 

Arthur, all wrapped up in his coat and scarf, sighs and moves from the door.

“Paul, talk to your brother; I’m not dealing with you two a day longer.”

His brother walks out of the bathroom already dressed up too; he still looks tense, his eyes roaming over Chuuya from head to toe. He had never liked his style, but he no longer cared. Paul can wear all the pale brown suits he craves, and Chuuya is happy with his punk clothes, as Kouyou calls them.

“What do you want, Chuuya?”

“First of all,” he says, stepping into the room. “I wanted to apologize for the things I’ve said these days; they were out of place and rude. I didn’t mean to aim to hurt, but I did.”

One thing is fighting with his brother, but using the injury that obliged Paul to retire has always been out of limits.

“I think both of us stepped way out of the limits, and I’m sorry, Paul.” The lines around his brother's eyes seem to soften. “I was under a lot of stress, and I overacted. Sorry.”

Verlaine is silent for a moment. He drags his hand across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It’s fine, Chuuya; we both say things we regret,” when he looks at him, is way softer. Like he finally stepped fully into the brother mood instead of coach one. “I forgive you, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Chuuya smiles, walking to his brother to offer him his hand to shake.

It's not affectionate; they don’t tend to be, and Arthur looks at them with a soft smile growing on his pale face.

“Second,” Chuuya says, letting go of his brother's hand. “I want to drop from the ice shows this summer; I know I already confirmed my assistance, but I can’t do it; I can’t go.”

“Chuuya-”

“I know that it would damage my public image,” he says, back straight and eyes firm. “But I can’t do it...”

He takes a deep breath before continuing.

“Chuuya-”

He is exhausted, and he only felt like this once, and it was when he was about to withdraw from the Grand Prix. He can’t go through that again—not so soon, not so young. What would he have done? If he had missed this event?

Chuuya wants to skate until his body can’t take it anymore. He wants to make history. 

“Chuuya!” he finally says, looking at his brother, and Paul’s hands rest over his shoulders. “I already said no to all the shows that wanted you on them.”

“Wait, what?”

“I already told them that you wouldn’t be joining the tour this summer.”

He sounds serious and firm about it, and Chuuya can’t believe it. A wide grin spreads on his face, and he wants to jump and scream.

But then Paul opens that big mouth of his again.

“I will refuse any invitations you receive to ice shows this year. Instead, you should properly focus on your training.”

“What?”

“We’ll add two extra hours of jump training if you’re going to pull stunts like the one with the Loop. I want you training properly.”

"Paul, that wasn’t what I meant; I was.”

“You were lucky that jump was valid, Chuuya.” When Paul steps away from him, Chuuya stops breathing. What is he saying? Wasn’t he giving Chuuya a break? “You’ll double the ballet lessons. I will personally supervise those. And you’re keeping the diet and daily mobility exercises.”

"Wait, what does that mean?”

“I want a long journey for you, longer and better than mine, and as a coach, I can see that you need the discipline I haven’t been imposing until now.” This can’t be it. “I need to shape you into the proper skater, Chuuya, or you’ll end up just like me.”

“Paul, what the actual fuck! I want a break! Not to train more!”

“Well, you’ll get a break when I say so. You asked me to work you to the bone to win, and that’s what we’ll be doing from now on.”

Chuuya can’t believe it.

He opens his mouth, but words are stuck in his throat.

This can’t be happening. His brother of all people should get it, and Paul Verlaine of all coaches out there should understand Chuuya, his little brother, the best.

“I thought you were different.” He thought he was free from all the horror stories about evil coaches that plague this sport. He thought he could be different, that he could trust his brother. “I thought you understood me!”

He’s raising his voice, but he doesn’t care.

“Chuuya, I get it,” Paul says, his hands facing Chuuya like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “I understand-”

"No, Paul, you don’t!”

The outburst takes everyone by surprise. Paul lowers his hands, and Arthur sits down, trying to pull his husband down, so he can sit next to him in the double bed.

“You don’t know a damn thing!”

Paul Verlaine is France's old golden boy, and because he’s a retired European skater, he doesn’t know anything. He still gets called for sponsor deals and interviews, and everyone respects him, injury or not.

“You don’t have people badmouthing you right in front of your fucking face because they assume that, since you are Japanese, you don’t know English! You don’t know how it feels for everyone to say that, of course, my performance scores are lower! Asians don’t know how to express their feelings! You don’t know what it feels like for someone to say that you're from another country and wave it off when you correct them!”

Rage bubbles in his chest. He’s so tired, so tired of this system he must endure each day.

“And you don’t get what it feels like to have no one. No one! Trying to learn how to pronounce your fucking name! We don’t even get that respect, Paul! So no, you don’t fucking get it! You don’t get that even after making a story, people are making it about you and not me!”

“Chuuya, that’s enough.”

"Oh, you’re just jealous of me, aren’t you? You had to make everything about yourself! You couldn’t claim to have thought of me that jump, and now you want me to disappear for months from the public eye!”

Paul looks surprised by the outburst and, when he stands, is so he can walk to the door and open it, Arthur at his talon.

“Happy birthday, Chuuya,” he says. “Your gift is at home. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

The nerve he has—oh god, Chuuya—feels like crying. The happiness of all he has achieved in the past day burns and turns into blind fury.

“Now go and have fun at the banquet,” he says, turning around so he can tie Arthur’s scar properly around his neck. “We´ll be joining soon.”

“I hate you.”

And he storms out of the room, furious with his brother, with Arthur for not saying a thing, and with himself for wanting to cry.

Chuuya punches the wall of the elevator and rests his back against the wall.

He’s dizzy with anger; his head and his ankle throb in pain.

“Dam it!”

He hits the wall again, and the movement makes something fall from his pocket.

Chuuya uses the sleeve to clean the few angry tears that escape his eyes and looks at the object. The small plastic card seems to mock him.

He’s pushing you toward the same fate he had

In bold letters, under the logo of some club, there’s a number.

The moment the doors open, Chuuya makes the call.

Nakahara was the first skater to land a quadruple loop jump in international competition during the 2011 World Figure Skating Championships. The event followed a surprising announcement from the skater, who switched coaches after the 2010–2011 season, moving to Singularities Club.

Chuuya Nakahara Wikipedia Page