Archive of Our Own ^beta

On paper, they should’ve been unstoppable. 

Iyo - the Genius of the Sky - a streak of colour slicing through the air as though the heavens were her domain. And Rhea - the Eradicator - dark and grounded, capturing the audience’s gaze through her indomitable sense of gravity. 

Heaven and earth. Poetry and weight.

Maybe it was fate their names fit the old myths — Iyo, the sky’s bright daughter, and Rhea, the child of sky and soil. Together, they ruled everything between.

The problem was, myth didn't always live up to reality. The ego is a temperamental thing, after all.

The practice ring in Perth’s secondary hall creaked with every bounce. Iyo moved across it like a phantom on auto-pilot — springboard, twist... hesitate? A flicker of doubt caught her midair - an invisible hand tugged her down, causing her to crash to the mat, not for the first time this session.

Rhea watched from the apron, jaw tight. Iyo had always moved like pure poetry in the sky, weaving sonnets through her flips, formulating haikus in her precision. But now she moved like gravity had finally noticed her.

“You good, Iyo?” she asked. The Japanese woman offered her a shrug, though a frown tugged at her lips.

“Again,” Iyo whispered, almost pleading. She climbed the ropes, sweat shining at her temple, and leapt. Perfect arc — imperfect landing. She stumbled, teeth gritted, muttered something in Japanese that Rhea didn’t need translating.

They had been practicing together for a couple of weeks leading up to the Crown Jewel event, initially gelling well. But as the night crept closer, Iyo became more shaky. 

“Maybe call it for the day?” Rhea pressed, voice wavering slightly. Iyo shook her head. 

“I’ll meet you later, at the hotel,” Iyo said. “I’ve got more practice to do.”

Ever the hard-worker, thought Rhea, but Iyo’s problem was definitely not due to lack of effort.

“You know, you keep pushing, you'll break something mate,” Rhea tried, but her reasoning fell on deaf ears as Iyo climbed the ropes again. 

“Okay, fine,” Rhea sighed, picking up her gym bag in defeat. 

For the first time since the match with the Kabuki Warriors had been booked, Rhea felt doubt. Not in their abilities, but with Iyo having the resolve to deliver the beat-down Asuka was truly owed. 

It pissed Rhea off. If Asuka had had her way, then Iyo would have been moulded into an obedient puppet, just as Kairi had become. Even though Iyo had removed herself from her old mentor, it seemed invisible strings still tethered her. 

Rhea stepped out of the gym into the warm Australian air, only a stone’s throw away from the Perth central business district. She inhaled deeply, taking in the sweet scent of eucalyptus and a faint hint of BBQ smoke on the horizon, marking the start of the Aussie spring.

It was a strange feeling to be back in Oz. The smells, the heat, the people… it all brought her back to her youth, simpler times before all the betrayal and deception that laced her career. It reminded her of cosy nights on the beach, the limitlessness of the stars, the ebb and flow of the ocean that called her to greater horizons.

She and Iyo were alike — both islanders, just on different scales. In Australia, you could vanish into the outback and never see another soul for miles if the need arose.. But in Japan, with everyone packed so closely together, that wasn’t an option. Peace and cohesion were woven into the social DNA of the country. 

Perhaps asking Iyo to truly abandon Asuka was like asking her to carve away a part of her core. But then, Rhea had nothing but the strongest faith that deep within Iyo’s soul, her internal flame burned brighter than any chain.

They would win tomorrow. 

They had to.

-

Later, on the balcony of their shared hotel floor, Iyo stood with her palms on the railing, eyes on the water of the Swan river ahead.

Rhea couldn't help but think she looked smaller than usual - lost in thought as she was - but nonetheless resplendent as the final rays of the hazy sun danced on her pink highlights and ignited her outline with a golden light. 

But it also highlighted the symptoms of her struggles - scuffs, blossoming bruises - the adornments of a warrior. 

“You ever give yourself a day off, chipmunk?” Rhea asked from behind, stepping forward to stand beside her. 

Iyo’s laugh was brittle. “If I stop, I have to think.”

Rhea leaned beside her, the railing cool against forearms scarred from tape and fights. “You’ve been off. You land fine, but it’s like you don’t trust the mat to catch you.”

Silence. Next to Iyo, Rhea could feel an oppressive weight smothering her, so unlike the usual weightless aura that characterised the older woman. 

Rhea let the quiet settle, giving Iyo time to unpick the knot in her thoughts. When she spoke, her voice was fragile.

“I lost to Stephanie,” Iyo said quietly, not looking away from the water ahead. “I was supposed to be better. And Asuka… Kairi…” She exhaled, shoulders curling inward. “We were family. Kyoudai. Then one day, I wasn’t enough.”

Rhea stared at the horizon. “Yeah. I know that one.”

Iyo’s head tilted.

“Dom,” Rhea said. “Judgment Day. Thought building a family meant it couldn’t break, that I’d never be alone.”

“Dom is a baka,” Iyo scowled.

A laugh - pure and unfiltered - ripped from Rhea’s throat. “You’re not wrong,” the Eradicator said, “But then, so is Asuka. And Kairi.” Iyo shuffled uncomfortably, but Rhea persisted, wrapping an arm around the older woman. “Family can be the wind under our wings, but it can also be a cage.” 

Iyo’s fingers tightened on the railing as her gaze turned to the sky, the deep brown of her eyes sparkling. “Maybe that’s why I feel heavy.”

“Hey, hey,” Rhea’s tone softened as she rubbed small circles on Iyo’s back. “You’ve still got this. You’ve just forgotten that you can do it alone.”

Wind caught Iyo’s hair; she brushed it aside, finally looking at Rhea. 

For one reckless heartbeat, Rhea forgot what she’d meant to say. Holy hell, she was beautiful. 

No, she chastised herself. Not the time.

Rhea pushed off the rail. “Come on. I wanna show you something. Bring a jacket.” 

–

They left the hotel before dusk, city lights fading behind them as they drove north beyond the city. 

Iyo sat curled in the passenger seat, watching the sun bleed into the horizon as the world whisked by in a blur. 

The Pacific Drive unspooled before them like a whispered secret, the horizon drawn thin beneath a sky too wide to hold. Iyo watched it drift past her window — dunes folded like sleeping beasts, saltbush clinging stubbornly to red earth, the ocean flashing and vanishing like a thought half caught. There was something raw and untamed in it all, something that refused to be softened.

It reminded her of Rhea.

The wind carved the land into quiet strength, the way time had carved Rhea — bold edges, unyielding presence. The ocean’s restlessness mirrored her too, endless and deep, sometimes calm, sometimes fierce enough to tear the world open. Iyo thought of how Rhea’s laughter could roll through silence like thunder, how her shadow stretched long even in the brightest light.

They drove on, the car humming beneath them, the sun melting gold across Rhea’s jaw. Iyo felt the pull of distance — not the kind that separates, but the kind that beckons. Out here, everything felt ancient and honest, as if the earth itself knew what it meant to stand unbroken.

And in that vastness, Iyo found herself smiling. Because beside her sat the only person she knew who could make a land like this seem small.

After a few miles of comfortable quiet - their drive accompanied only by the staticky metal from the radio - Iyo asked, “Do you miss home?”

“Sometimes,” Rhea said. “I miss my family, and the people. The vegemite–”

“Veggie might?”

“Naw, vegemite,” Rhea corrected, laughing gently. “It’s a spread. You need to try it.”

“What is it like?”

Rhea hummed. “Well, it’s a bit of an acquired taste. Salty, a bit bitter, umami…”

“But Rhea,” Iyo deadpanned, “You are mami.”

The younger woman coughed a laugh. “Iyo, if we weren’t going to the most amazing place, I would be turning this car around. Right now.”

The rest of the drive passed with easy conversation. Iyo still spared glances at the landscapes, the red earth giving way to sand as they approached their destination. Occasionally, the monotony of the reds and browns broke—a burst of wildflowers painting the red earth in improbable blues and violets - softness and colour breaking out despite the perceived hostility of the environment. 

Iyo was reminded of Rhea yet again.

By the time the sky blackened, dunes stretched on either side of the drive. Hundreds of limestone pillars erupted from the sand, like the fingers of subterranean giants reaching for the fledgling stars.

Rhea parked and killed the engine. “Welcome to the Pinnacles.”

They stepped out into the quiet that buzzed faintly with wind. The air tasted of salt and dust.

Iyo turned slowly, eyes wide. “It’s endless.”

“Yeah.” Rhea kicked at the sand, watching grains scatter. “Mum brought me here once. Said if you stare long enough, you remember how small your troubles really are.”

Iyo brushed her hand along a stone pillar, its surface rough and warm from yesterday’s heat. “How long have they been here?”

Rhea shrugged. “Thousands of years, I guess. Stood through every storm. Didn’t break,” Rhea said. “Just changed shape.”

Iyo pressed a palm to the structure. “I hope I can change, too. But I don’t have so long.”

Rhea met her gaze. “Don’t you see, Iyo, you already have.”

Iyo looked up — at the pillars, the dunes, the sky that refused to end. Daughter of the sky, child of the earth. Maybe they’d been meeting here all along.

A gust swept between them; strands of Iyo’s hair stuck to her lip. Rhea reached up without thinking, brushed them back. Iyo blinked — startled, but she didn’t step away.

“You sound like poet,” Iyo teased.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Rhea said, feigning seriousness. “Ruins my image.”

Iyo laughed — soft, musical — and Rhea’s chest ached pleasantly at the sound. She hadn’t felt this easy and free with anyone since Dom. 

The thought caught her off guard, and she stepped away from Iyo quickly, not wanting to place too much weight on the feeling.

“Come on, I didn’t bring you for the pillars, awesome as they are,” Rhea grinned, stepping towards the rear of the car. From the boot, she exhumed a couple of beers. “The light show is going to start soon.”

–

“Sugoi,” Iyo breathed. 

They sat on the bonnet of the car, the metal still warm from the drive, and tilted their head back. At first, Iyo thought her eyes were playing tricks on her — that no sky could be this full, this alive. But as her gaze adjusted, the stars multiplied. Hundreds became thousands, then millions, until the darkness itself seemed made of light.

It was the first time she had ever really seen the night. Back home, in Tokyo, the sky was a faint orange blur, the stars washed out by the city’s endless glow. Scenes like this were confined to anime or documentaries. But here — out in the desert, miles from anything — the heavens felt impossibly close. The Milky Way stretched across the horizon like a pale tide, a slow shimmer of dust and distance. She reached out, half-expecting to feel it brush against her fingertips.

The Pinnacles stood silent around them, their pale forms catching the faint starlight. Between them, the sand glowed softly — gold where it met the moonlight, deep crimson in the shadows. The air was cool now, and she was grateful for the jacket Rhea had advised her to bring.

She leaned back on her palms, breath shallow. For once, there was no hum of traffic, no streetlight hum or screens flickering in the corner of her vision. Only the vastness above — endless, weightless — and the steady thrum of her own heartbeat.

A strange ache welled in her chest, part wonder, part grief. How many nights like this had gone unseen? How many skies had been hidden behind glass and glare? Out here, beneath this ancient, breathing firmament, she felt both smaller and more alive than they ever had.

“It’s beautiful,” Iyo breathed, not taking her eyes off the endless expanse of the sky. Iyo sat forward on the bonnet, elbows resting on her knees, her eyes wide and shimmering in the starlight. “I didn’t know it could look like this,” she whispered, voice barely carrying over the stillness. “Back home… the sky never showed this much. I thought stars were just—dots. Not…” She trailed off, unable to find the words. The reflection of the Milky Way glittered faintly in her eyes.

Rhea leaned against the hood beside her, boots crossed at the ankle, arms folded. The quiet suited her — it was rare they ever found a place like this, where even the air seemed to hum with calm. “It’s wild, huh?” she said softly. “You spend your whole life thinking you’ve seen everything, and then the world goes and shows you something like this.”

Iyo tilted her face upward again, and for a moment, she looked almost childlike — small beneath the vastness, yet lit by it. “It makes me feel…” she hesitated, brow furrowing. “Tiny. Like I could disappear, and no one would notice.”

Rhea turned to look at her, really look. Iyo’s shoulders were drawn, her voice still carrying the edge of the doubt that had followed her since the loss. That spark — the one that had always burned so bright — had been dim lately. But now, under the open sky, there was a hint of it again.

“Naw, you're seeing it backwards, Iyo,” Rhea said quietly. “You’re not small.” She gestured upward, tracing the constellations with her gaze. “You’re part of that. Every bit of light up there — it’s been burning for billions of years. You think they’d waste their time shining if we were meant to feel small?”

Iyo blinked, startled by the certainty in her tone.

“You’ve just forgotten,” Rhea went on, her voice low, steady — the kind of strength that came from surviving storms. “The same way the city hides the stars. The same way Asuka has been holding you back. But it doesn’t mean they’re gone, or you’re any less than yourself. You’re still up there. Still burning. You’ve just got to get far enough away from the noise to see it again.”

Iyo exhaled, slow and trembling, and leaned back until she was lying flat against the bonnet, her hair spilling around her. The stars swam above her, infinite and alive. 

Rhea smiled faintly beside her, eyes following the same sky. “Boundless, Iyo,” she said softly. “That’s what you are.”

Iyo’s smile faltered slightly. “Not lately.”

“That’s ‘cause you were flying for someone else,” Rhea said. “Asuka’s light was bright, but you don’t need to orbit anyone. You’re your own sky.”

Iyo’s breath caught. “Without them, I feel empty.”

“Empty just means room to grow,” Rhea said. “You don’t need to fill it with guilt.”

Iyo closed her eyes, inhaled salt and wind. “I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

Her eyes opened. “You?”

Rhea nodded. “After Dom, I swore I’d never lift someone again. That I'd be my own woman. But here I am, wanting to see you soar.”

Iyo smiled faintly. “Then maybe we can help each other.”

Rhea let out a quiet laugh — not mocking, but warm, almost disbelieving. “Yeah,” she murmured, eyes tracing the curve of Iyo’s jaw as it caught the faint silver of the stars. “Maybe we can.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The desert breathed around them — slow, steady, ancient. A breeze drifted between the Pinnacles, stirring a few strands of Iyo’s hair across her cheek. Rhea reached out before she could think, brushing them back gently, her fingers grazing skin warmer than the night air. Iyo’s breath hitched — barely audible — but it rippled through the silence like a heartbeat.

Their eyes met. The sky hung endless above them, but somehow it felt smaller now, drawn in close — the weight of the stars pressing softly around them. Iyo’s gaze flicked to Rhea’s lips, then back to her eyes. Rhea froze, her hand still hovering near Iyo’s face, her thumb trembling just slightly.

Everything in that moment narrowed — the scent of sand and engine heat, the faint hum of blood in their ears, the impossible nearness of breath between them.

Iyo tilted her head just a fraction closer. The air seemed to hum, stretched thin by possibility. Rhea leaned in without realizing it, drawn by something she couldn’t quite name — something bright and fragile that had nothing to do with pity, and everything to do with how Iyo looked when she finally believed again.

But just before their lips could meet, Iyo inhaled sharply — a small, uncertain sound that broke the spell. She blinked, sitting back slightly, the warmth of her hand brushing Rhea’s as she steadied herself.

“Sorry,” Iyo whispered, voice soft, flustered. “I just—”

Rhea shook her head, smiling faintly, her own breath unsteady. “Don’t be.” Her voice was rough around the edges. “I took you here to help you, not give you more to stress about.”

Iyo nodded, eyes still locked on hers, and for a heartbeat longer, the space between them glowed — fragile, shimmering, full of unspoken things.

“We need to get back,” Rhea said gently, sliding off the bonnet. “Get a proper rest before the big event tomorrow.”

“Hai,” Iyo agreed, though she didn’t move straight away, her fingers brushing over metal of the bonnet, warm from where Rhea had lay only moments ago.

—

Back at the arena, the scent of liniment and coffee rode the air. The undercard thumped faintly through the concrete like a second heartbeat. Iyo sat on a folding chair with her knee up, tightening her boot laces, each cross of the leather a ritual she could still control.

Rhea crouched in front of her, a roll of white tape looped around two fingers. “Wrist?”

Iyo offered it out. Rhea wrapped with practiced care: pull, smooth, press, a snug spiral that climbed like a promise. She tested the flex gently with her thumb, and the contact grounded both of them.

“You don’t have to catch me if I fall,” Iyo murmured, not quite meeting her eyes.

Rhea smirked. “I know you don’t need me to. I want to be there anyway.” She tore the tape with her teeth and flattened the edge. “Besides, you’re going to stick the landing.”

Iyo’s mouth tipped into a small, nervous smile. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll be the floor,” Rhea said, deadpan, then waggled her brows. “World’s sturdiest safety mat.”

Iyo actually laughed—quiet, quick—and it loosened something between her ribs. She slid her palm into Rhea’s for a second, then let go before it could mean too much for the hallway they were in.

“Hey.” Rhea’s voice gentled. “Remember who you are, yeah? The genius of the sky. You’ve got this.”

Iyo swallowed and nodded. “Together,” she said, almost like a test.

“Together,” Rhea echoed, without hesitation.

The agent leaned in from the door. “You’re up in ten.”

Rhea stood, rolled her shoulders, and offered her fist. Iyo bumped it, the tiny shock of contact sparking through both of them like a fuse finally lit.

“You ready to show ‘em the sky?” Rhea grinned.

“Only if the ground keeps steady,” Iyo replied with a small smile.

—

The entrance curtain breathed them out into a wall of sound. Heat rose from the crowd in a living wave. Alive, pulsing, almost too much after the stillness of the desert. Iyo blinked under the lights, momentarily blinded, and for a split second she thought of the previous night spent in the desert — the quiet, the stars, the way her breath had steadied against the vastness. Out there, the world had felt infinite. Here, it closed in tight around the ring, every heartbeat amplified by the roar.

Across the ring, Asuka and Kairi moved in that uncanny mirror rhythm that used to feel like home to her. Tonight, though, the mirror had a hairline crack—subtle, but there. Kairi’s glance lingered a fraction too long on Asuka’s hands as they flexed their tape. Asuka’s chin tilted a degree sharper than necessary. 

Rhea squeezed her hand as Iyo prepared to enter the ring. “Remember, you’re Iyo fucking Sky. The night is yours.”

Iyo swallowed - unsure - but nodded, and took her place.

“The following match is scheduled for one fall…”

Asuka stood before her, face painted, hair bright - all ferocity and ruthlessness, qualities that had made her a fantastic mentor and an even scarier adversary. No love lingered in the older woman’s eyes, and Iyo felt almost as though she might drown in their venom.

No, no. Remember the stars. Remember–

She glanced at Rhea. 

Remember the younger woman’s faith. 

The bell rang. The sound cut through the air like a snapped wire.

Asuka came at her first — sharp, fast, all color and teeth. Iyo met her halfway, deflecting a strike, slipping another. For a moment, she matched her pace — their rhythm almost old, almost familiar — until her timing faltered. Just a breath, just enough.

Asuka seized it, spinning low, and threw her to the mat. The impact cracked through Iyo’s spine. The canvas was harder than she remembered — less forgiving.

From the apron, Rhea’s voice cut clean through the roar.
 “Breathe, Sky. In. Out. Again.”

Iyo pressed a hand to the mat, rose to one knee. Asuka came swinging, but this time Iyo caught her leg, turned, and pushed herself upright. Her body remembered the sequence — step, pivot, lift — even when her mind screamed that she couldn’t.

They traded strikes — a flurry of motion and breath, like an old argument spoken in a language that had once meant love. When Asuka drove her back toward the corner, Iyo planted a boot on the middle rope, flipped backward, and landed clear. The crowd gasped — a burst of hope and noise swelling through the arena.

Kairi called for the tag — too loud, too eager. Asuka’s hand slapped hers, and Kairi dove in, a flash of speed and precision. Iyo shifted to meet her, but her rhythm stuttered again. Kairi’s elbow struck home, sharp against her collarbone.

From the corner, Rhea’s hand extended — steady, waiting. “Here.”

Iyo’s palm found hers.

Rhea surged into the ring like a storm breaking. Her first hit sent Kairi spinning, the sound of it making the front rows flinch. She hauled Kairi upright, drove her into the mat, covered — the referee’s hand hit once before Kairi twisted free.

Rhea didn’t show frustration. She stood, drawing Kairi back toward the corner, her gaze locking with Asuka’s. The look said it all — try it.

Asuka did.

She leapt onto the ropes, but Rhea was already turning, striking her from the apron with a forearm that hit like a slammed door. The crowd erupted — a surge of voices rising into a single, hungry roar.

Kairi scrambled, aiming low, striking Rhea’s leg to bring her down. In the chaos, Asuka tagged herself back in and climbed high.

Iyo saw it — too late to warn, too early to stop. Asuka launched, feet colliding with Rhea’s shoulders. The impact drove Rhea to a knee.

Asuka moved to finish it, swinging hard — a kick meant to end.

Iyo didn’t think. She moved.

Her feet hit the mat, her arms came up — intercepting the strike mid-swing. The sound rang out sharp against her forearms. She shoved Asuka back, shouting in Japanese — not a taunt, not a cry, but a warning pulled from the heart:
 “Not tonight!”

The referee stepped in, pushing Iyo back to her corner, but she didn’t break eye contact. Asuka’s stare met hers — sharp, smiling, full of knives.

The match hung in the air, trembling, alive.

Back in the ring, Rhea broke free from Asuka’s grasp and slammed her down hard — the sound cracked through the air, echoing off the ropes. She rose, steady, not desperate, and turned toward the corner, hand outstretched.

“Finish it, chipmunk.”

Iyo’s fingers hovered — a breath of hesitation, a whisper of that old fear — and then she set her hand into Rhea’s. The tag snapped like a thunderclap.

She vaulted between the ropes and hit the mat running — caught Asuka with a dropkick that pinned her to the corner, then followed with another strike that drew a ripple from the crowd. But Asuka, ever the storm, shifted her weight, slipped behind, and caught Iyo’s arm, wrenching her into a sharp lock. Iyo grit her teeth, forced down to one knee as Asuka twisted harder, driving her back with precision born of memory.

Asuka barked something sharp in Japanese — half challenge, half ghost — and flung Iyo into the ropes. Iyo rebounded, only to be caught again and hurled backward in a clean suplex that rattled the ring. The crowd roared as Asuka launched herself on top of her.

“You left me, and for what?” Asuka hissed, “to fall on your face? I taught you better than this!”

For a moment, Iyo lay still, the lights above her blurring into white noise. The taste of defeat brushed the back of her tongue — familiar, bitter, almost expected. But then she saw the reflection of the overhead lights on the ropes, glimmering like the stars over the Pinnacles — infinite, patient, waiting.

You’re your own sky.

She rolled suddenly, catching Asuka off-balance, and sprang to her feet. Asuka lunged — but Iyo moved like wind. She slipped past, rebounding off the ropes, then launched upward, twisting through the lights in an arc of pure instinct.

For one heartbeat, everything slowed. The noise fell away, and Iyo was back beneath that desert sky — breathless, endless, unafraid.

She came down in a perfect moonsault, her body cutting through the air like a falling star, and crashed into Asuka with the full weight of everything she’d reclaimed.

The ring shuddered.

Iyo hooked the leg, breath sharp in her chest.

One.

Asuka twitched, but couldn’t rise — the wind knocked from her lungs.

Two.

Rhea blocked Kairi’s dive with one solid shoulder, holding the world steady.

Three.

The bell struck. The sound broke like surf, rolling over them both.

Iyo stayed there a moment longer, her palm flat against the canvas, feeling it hum beneath her —  like she was listening to the mat forgive her at last for her lapse in faith. Then she pushed up and turned to find Rhea already on a knee beside her.

“Told you,” Rhea panted, grinning helplessly. “Still the sky.”

Iyo was laughing before she knew it, damp hair sticking to her cheeks. “Not without the ground.”

Rhea huffed a delighted breath that could have been a laugh or a sob in another life. “Good thing I’m heavy.”

Iyo’s hand found Rhea’s wrist—taped, warm, steady. She squeezed once. The squeeze came back, identical and sure, and something like a vow formed in the space that passed between them unspoken.

At ringside, Asuka stood with Kairi half a step behind, the shape of their shadow reversed from the years when they’d once been in sunlight together. The symmetry they used to move in — that seamless, breath-for-breath rhythm — was gone now, replaced by distance that felt older than the match itself.

The lights caught Asuka’s face in sharp relief, every edge honed and certain. Her chin lifted, proud, unyielding. For a heartbeat, the crowd blurred away — all noise turned to hush. Iyo met her gaze, the weight of their shared history pressing between them: the triumphs, the betrayals, the things said too late, or never at all.

Then Iyo bowed — just a fraction, just enough. Not forgiveness, not surrender — simply the quiet understanding that some roads no longer ran parallel. That what once burned as a single flame had split into two steady lights, each finding its own sky.

Asuka held her stare for a moment longer, unreadable, then smiled. “I wanted only to make you strong,” she said, “but it looks like you have found someone to take my place, ne.”

She turned, and walked away, Kairi following in step — their shadows stretching in opposite directions across the floor. Iyo watched them go, her breath steady now, and when she finally looked up, the lights above didn’t seem so harsh anymore. They looked, for the first time, like stars.

Iyo stayed on her knees for a moment, breath heaving, hands pressed flat to the canvas. The noise of the crowd rolled over her — cheers, chants, flashes of light — but it felt far away, like a storm she could finally stand still inside. Then Rhea’s shadow fell across her.

“Sky,” Rhea said softly.

Iyo looked up just as Rhea reached for her. Their hands met, and Rhea hauled her upright with effortless strength, but didn’t let go. The two of them stood there in the center of the ring, sweat-slick and shining under the lights, staring at each other as the crowd chanted their names.

Rhea raised Iyo’s arm high, grinning — proud, fierce, alive. Iyo smiled back, wide and unguarded. For the first time in a long while, the weight behind her ribs felt light. She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in: the roaring crowd, the flood of cameras, the tremor of adrenaline still humming in her veins.

Then, as the noise swelled to a peak, Iyo leaned closer, just enough for her words to be swallowed by the roar.

“Come on,” she murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”

Rhea arched a brow, still catching her breath. “Already planning an afterparty?”

Iyo’s grin turned soft, conspiratorial. “Something quieter. Just us.”

Rhea’s answering smirk was all teeth and warmth. She slung an arm around Iyo’s shoulders, drawing her close as they turned toward the ropes. The lights blazed behind them, the cheers still rising, but as they stepped through the ropes together, the noise seemed to dim.

—

Night came velvet. King’s Park held the city like a bowl of light. Below them, Perth shimmered — gold and glass, reflections of stars scattered in the river. The wind moved softly through the trees, carrying laughter from somewhere distant, music half-lost to the breeze.

They stood at the railing for a while, neither speaking, shoulders close enough that their warmth brushed in quiet rhythm.

From up here, the arena lights were only a memory — just another cluster of brightness swallowed by the horizon. Iyo leaned against the cool metal rail, fingers tracing its edge.

Rhea broke the silence first, voice low, thoughtful. “You ever notice how quiet it gets after a fight?”

Iyo tilted her head, curious.

“It’s not just the crowd fading,” Rhea said. “It’s something else. Like the world’s catching its breath with you.”

Iyo nodded slowly, eyes on the water. “It feels… bigger than before.”

“Yeah.” Rhea rested her elbows on the railing beside her. “That happens, when you finally set yourself free.”

Iyo smiled faintly at that, her reflection flickering across the glassy surface below. “You make it sound like it was simple.”

Rhea shook her head. “It’s not. Letting go never is. But it’s worth it.”

For a long moment, they said nothing. The city pulsed quietly beneath them — cars threading between lights, the hum of life continuing, uncaring and beautiful.

Iyo looked at her then, really looked — the way the city’s glow edged along Rhea’s jaw, catching the faint bruise near her temple, the exhaustion tucked into the corners of her smile.

“I couldn’t have done this without you, Rhea,” Iyo said. 

Rhea blinked, taken aback by the sincerity of the words. “Iyo…”

But Iyo didn’t let her deflect. “You said I was boundless,” she whispered. “And I wanted to believe it. Tonight, I did.”

Her hand found Rhea’s — not tentative, not testing — just steady. She stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of Rhea’s breath brushed her cheek.

Rhea’s voice caught somewhere in her chest. “Are you sure?”

Iyo’s eyes lifted to meet hers, dark, bright, and full of that same starlight she’d reclaimed in the desert.. “Hai,” she said simply.

And then she kissed her.

It wasn’t sudden — it was inevitable. A slow, deliberate crossing of the space they’d been circling for weeks. Iyo’s lips pressed soft against Rhea’s, tasting faintly of salt and something sweet, and Rhea exhaled through her nose — a sound halfway between surprise and surrender.

Her hands rose, one cupping Iyo’s jaw, the other settling at the small of her back. The world narrowed to starlight and heartbeat, the quiet percussion of trust finding its own rhythm.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the cool air.

“Didn’t think this night could get any better,” Rhea smiled, voice low.

For a while, they just stood there — the city spread below, the stars above, and in between, the two of them suspended in something still and real.

“You can’t always choose who you start with,” Iyo said, “but you can choose who you fly with.”

Rhea’s eyes softened. “Then I choose you.”

The breeze lifted her hair again; Rhea’s fingers found their way back through it, careful, reverent. Her thumb traced an idle line along Iyo’s jaw, the touch feather-light but certain. Iyo leaned into it, chasing the contact before she could think better of it. Her breath caught when Rhea’s other hand settled at her waist — not pulling, just resting there, steady as the ground she’d promised to be.

Iyo lifted her hand to Rhea’s chest, fingers splaying across the rise and fall of her breath. The warmth beneath her palm was dizzying — alive, solid, achingly real.

“Rhea,” she whispered.

The sound of her name — small, trembling, reverent — hit Rhea harder than any applause ever had. Her reply came low, rough-edged. “Yeah?”

Iyo didn’t answer in words. Instead, she leaned in again, slower this time, the kiss deepening by degrees. Rhea met her halfway, careful at first, then hungrier when Iyo’s fingers curled in the fabric at her collar.

It wasn’t frantic — it was discovery. The kind of touch that asked and answered in the same heartbeat.

When they finally broke apart again, their foreheads stayed pressed together. Iyo’s voice was a breath against Rhea’s lips. “Maybe… we go somewhere quieter?”

Rhea’s mouth curved into a small, crooked smile. “You mean quieter than this?”

Iyo nodded once, eyes dark and steady. “Hai.”

Rhea brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, fingers trembling only slightly. “You sure?”

Iyo’s smile softened — not shy, not uncertain. “I’ve been sure since the desert.”

That undid Rhea a little. She kissed Iyo again — slower, deeper — and when they finally pulled apart, the night around them felt charged, shimmering with the promise of what came next.

They left hand in hand, the path down from the lookout unfolding in silver light. Neither hurried. Every step was its own kind of touch.

When they finally reached the hotel after its own little eternity, inside, the hotel corridors were hushed — carpeted steps, the low hum of late-night air conditioning. They passed a window overlooking the sleeping city; below, the Swan River shimmered like spilled mercury, catching the last of the moonlight.

When they reached the door, Rhea paused, keycard in hand, eyes flicking to Iyo. A blanket of silence fell over them, laced with anticipation and inevitability, broken only by the soft click of the lock that felt louder than it should have.

The door swung open on darkness and the faint scent of eucalyptus soap. Iyo stepped in first, the city glow slipping through the curtains to paint silver along her shoulders. Rhea closed the door behind them, her shadow falling across Iyo’s as they stood in the dim light.

For a long heartbeat, neither spoke. Then Iyo turned — slowly, deliberately — until they faced each other.

Rhea reached up, fingers brushing the faint bruise along Iyo’s jaw from the match. “You sure you’re not too sore for this?”

Iyo’s breath came as a soft laugh. “Sore is fine,” she whispered. “It means this is real.”

Rhea’s throat worked once, silent. Then she stepped closer. The space between them vanished.

The first touch wasn’t a kiss — it was Rhea’s palm finding the back of Iyo’s neck, her thumb tracing slow circles there, grounding, asking. Iyo leaned in, breath catching, her hands rising to Rhea’s chest again, feeling the steady drum beneath.

Their lips met, and the room tilted around them. It wasn’t urgent; it was a deep exhale, a surrender they’d both been holding back for far too long. Iyo tasted of faint sweetness — champagne from the celebration earlier, maybe — and salt from the match’s sweat. Rhea drank it in like penance.

Iyo pressed closer, fingers curling in the collar of Rhea’s shirt. The kiss deepened — unhurried, but certain. Rhea’s hands slipped to Iyo’s hips, thumbs tracing the edge of fabric. Iyo’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. She only whispered against Rhea’s lips, voice trembling but clear:

“Don’t stop.”

Rhea froze for half a heartbeat, searching her face — finding only certainty in the wide, dark eyes looking back.

She didn’t.

The next kiss came rougher, heat curling between them as Rhea backed her gently toward the bed. Iyo’s hands slid up, fingers threading through Rhea’s hair. The air grew thick — their breaths mingling, shallow, quick — and somewhere between the laughter and the sighs, they forgot to think about anything else.

When the backs of Iyo’s knees met the mattress, she let herself fall, pulling Rhea down with her. The world outside — the crowd, the cameras, the ghosts — disappeared. There was only this: two bodies mapped by trust, every touch a question asked and answered in the same breath.

“Rhea,” Iyo breathed, voice half a plea, half a challenge.

Rhea met her eyes — steady, fierce, undone. “Yeah?”

Iyo’s smile turned daring. “Show me how boundless feels.”

That was all it took.

Rhea laughed softly — disbelieving, reverent — before kissing her again, long enough that the rest of the world slipped out of reach. The bed creaked beneath them; the night bent close to listen.

Outside, the city held its breath. Inside, the sky finally met the ground.

–

The city had barely started breathing again when Rhea blinked awake. Pale light seeped through the thin hotel curtains, painting faint gold on the walls. Beside her, Iyo slept turned toward the window, hair scattered like spilled ink across the pillow.

For a long moment Rhea just watched her. The quiet felt different now — not empty, but full. Every rise and fall of Iyo’s shoulders wrote the same steady rhythm Rhea had been chasing her whole career: proof that something good could last more than one night.

At least, God, she prayed that was the case. That last night wasn't some fluke of adrenaline playing tricks on the heart. 

A strand of hair drifted across Iyo’s mouth; as Rhea brushed it back, careful not to wake her, yet an insecure part of her yearned for validation.

Iyo stirred easily — years of training meant neither of them ever really slept deep. Her eyes opened, hazy with the kind of softness that didn’t need translation.

“Good morning, chipmunk,” Rhea said, voice low. 

Iyo shuffled closer, nuzzling into Rhea's side. “It is,” she affirmed sleepily. 

With the older woman in her arms, Rhea felt guilty for even considering what they shared wasn't anything less than real. 

“How'd you sleep?” Iyo murmured after a few beats of comfortable quiet. 

Rhea snorted quietly. “You fight in your sleep.”

Iyo blinked. “Did I?”

“Yeah.” Rhea held up a hand with a faint scratch line near her wrist. “Clothesline of destiny.”

Iyo’s laugh was small but real, the kind that vibrated against Rhea’s ribs when she leaned closer. They stayed like that for a while, sharing the quiet between half-formed jokes and half-held touches.

Outside, a bird called — sharp, bright — and somewhere below, traffic began to hum. Their flight would come soon. Life would come soon. But for now there was this: warmth, breath, and the soft certainty of choosing.

“I don’t want this morning to end,” Rhea murmured, rubbing the small of Iyo’s back in gently massaging circles. “But I think we've got somewhere to be.”

Iyo hummed sadly. “Just five more minutes. Then we can get some breakfast.”

“Fancy trying some vegemite?” 

“I think I’ve already had my fill of umami,” Iyo grinned, ignoring Rhea’s mock howl of despair. 

The sun climbed higher, washing them both in gold. Outside, the day stretched wide open. Inside, the two wrestlers held each other — the ground and the sky, finding their balance.

–

The airport made a cathedral of glass out of early light. Windows blazed pale gold; the polished floor threw back a translation of the sky. Travelers moved like a slow river around defined rocks: kiosks, benches, luggage mounded into brief monuments.

Iyo sat with her knees tucked and her bag at her feet. A Pinnacles keychain dangled from the zipper pull—a tiny limestone spire that clicked faintly when it tapped the metal teeth.

Rhea returned with two cups, sleeves rolled to her forearms, hair damp from a too-quick shower that smelled faintly of hotel citrus.

“They still didn’t have tea,” she said, offering a cup anyway. “But I found a coffee that lies convincingly about being dessert.”

Iyo accepted, fingers brushing Rhea’s. “I’ll allow it,” she said solemnly, then tried a sip and managed not to cough at the sweetness. Her eyes went wide. “This is… cake.”

“Exactly,” Rhea said, pleased with herself. “Breakfast of champions.”

“Diabetes of champions,” Iyo murmured, but she took another sip all the same, like a dare she intended to win.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching a plane taxi. The announcement boards clicked their quiet mechanical changes. Somewhere a child laughed in that bright, bell-clear way the world sometimes makes on purpose.

Rhea nudged Iyo’s shin with the toe of her boot. “How do you feel?”

Iyo considered, actually checked. “Light,” she said, surprised to hear it aloud. “Not because I’m empty. Because I put something down.”

Rhea’s chest went warm. “Good.”

“And you?” Iyo asked.

Rhea watched a crew walk the edge of the tarmac, fluorescents bright against the day. “Like I finally set something down where it won’t roll away.”

They let that sit between them, Iyo's head resting on Rhea's shoulder. A group passed—fans, maybe, from the way they glanced twice and whispered. No one approached. The moment stayed intact.

The overhead speakers chimed: Final boarding.

“That’s us,” Rhea said, standing and slinging her bag up one-handed like it weighed nothing. She offered the other to Iyo, palm up.

Iyo took it. Their fingers fit with the confidence of a move learned and kept.

They walked toward the gate, shoulders bumping now and then in the way of two people figuring out how to walk beside each other without choreography. At the window, the sky lay soft and limitless, a pale sheet the day would write on.

They scanned their passes. The jet bridge swallowed them in that blank, humming way of thresholds. Somewhere behind them, a keychain clicked like a tiny bell. Somewhere ahead, the world opened like a page - boundless.