Chapter Text
France is strange. The people here walk slower, look through you rather than at you (which is pretty rude— by the way), and treat most things with moderate detachment.
At least the 7:30 train is still the usual slew of tired corporate slaves.
The old pub under Yuki’s flat is still where the sweaty men with a cold dinner waiting at home smoke cheap cigarettes and nurse drinks they’d be too far gone the next morning to remember.
There’s no point in comparing the two, this much Yuki knows. It’s not like thinking more about Japan would make him miss it less, or thinking more about this new place would help him like it more.
But in the dim fluorescent lighting of his new flat, with the smell of soap and ice clinging to his fingers, there’s not much else to do.
In the corner of the room, his whites are drenched in detergent, the rough cotton still betraying a tang of metal.
He had forgotten to ask his mom to wash it before leaving. So now, with the sky already dark outside the window, D1 sabre fencer Yuki Tsunoda sits in his new flat trying to wash his equipment without destroying it.
It feels more like a hotel room than a home.
“Don’t forget to wash your whites! You have to do it yourself now, and don’t wash-”
His mothers nagging voice doesn’t help with homesickness.
He sighs before dropping the rough cotton jacket back into the sink basin, which splatters water all over his shirt.
Fuck this shit.
Stepping into the balcony of the cheap flat, the cold breeze of the Paris night is a lukewarm presence against him. As Yuki leans onto the railings, the lights of a city not-yet-asleep glistens in the distance. There are crowds laughing below, speaking a foreign language with too many consonants and weird syntax.
He feels out of place.
Just 2 months. It’ll be over before it starts,
It’s been a week since he arrived, a week since kids started glancing at him curiously on the streets, a week since the last time he had a conversation with someone that lasted over 2 sentences. But as much as the last week sucked, holed up in his room playing FIFA and CoD on shitty wifi, it didn’t match the dread pooling in his stomach from thinking of the upcoming training camp.
He still remembers Jerkmes excited voice over the phone telling him of this new exciting opportunity in France. For two months, he told him, with the best facilities, the best fencers, and the best coaches.
INSEP, Paris, France, where Olympic level fencers had spent their days training– also where Yuki would be spending his summer.
Away from home, but not away from pressure and politics. If anything, closer to all the cancers of this sport.
The buzz of his phone snaps him out of the trance. The temperature outside is dropping now, goosebumps already rising on his arms .
He shuts the balcony doors with a slam. His phone is still screaming with text messages, the newest one reading.
“Bienvenue aux escrimeurs à la formation intensive d'été 2022 de l'INSEP ! Nous sommes ravis de vous rencontrer demain et c'est un immense honneur pour l'INSEP de pouvoir travailler avec certains des meilleurs athlètes mondiaux ! Pour connaître le programme, l'itinéraire et les informations importantes de demain, cliquez ici...”
He translates it into Japanese before the swirling mass of English-not-English drives him to dive off a cliff.
A part of him aches to have to get up early tomorrow.
But a little part of him is excited as well, after all, the opportunity and its advantages are undeniably valuable. Rarely does the FIE get their shit together to sponsor something like this.
Yuki has seen these people through U-15 to Cadet to Junior, he practically grew up with them. Yet when it comes to the notion of training together, he doesn’t know what to expect. Would they be any different? He’s seen how they act with team mates, it’s no different then how Yuki would act with his own, but they aren’t really in the same team, are they? Hostility or hospitality, tit or tat.
He ends up giving up trying to remove the metallic tang from his whites, and hangs them up in the shower, throws his lamé in his fencing bag along with his wires, and sends one last look at his bag before closing the lights. There’s no point in worrying, it won’t delay the inevitable.
—
The morning subway in Paris, compared to Tokyo, which is usually silent interrupted by the occasional cough, is hell.
Yuki and his fencing bag (which is now garnering him a few dirty looks), is slotted between a tired young mom of 2, and a businessman speaking in frantic French, clearly aggravated by something.
A kid starts bawling now. Yuki considers getting off and walking the rest of the journey.
His cap is pushed down as he scrolls through his feed, the same few videos playing again and again. He needs to call the mobile company, the SIM card doesn’t seem to be working properly. His bangs are pushed over his face, they must be growing longer, because they're currently jutting in odd angles into the corner of his corneas.
As the mechanical voice enters the PA again, the subway doors open, sending in a flurry of warm air and another influx of people into the already crowded compartment.
As the train takes off, there's more chatter now, and the mom sitting beside him has finally given her child her phone, which means no more crying kids. A great start truly, to this shitty day.
Yuki adjusts his hat, trying to get his hair out of his eyes, flicking the strands and tucking them behind his ears. The new group of people appear in the corner of his peripheral vision, saying something in heavily accented English and laughing. One of them stops right in front of him, dropping something on the ground with a thud.
In a moment, a lot of things happen.
For one, the train must’ve ran over something, because the entire shuttle raises and lowers, things are sliding to one side, the businessman has dropped his briefcase, Yuki instinctively reaches to steady his fencing bag, looks up, sees someone looking right at him, except his hair is in his eyes and he doesn’t-
The train steadies.
Yuki fixes his hat, and finally swats his bangs out of his vision.
He looks up, for real now, not knowing what to expect, because it should’ve been anything but this. In front of him stands Gasly, looking slightly surprised, one hand holding his bag over his shoulders, and the other clutching his phone. Besides him is… what’s the word again? Leclerc? Considering his expression, he mustn’t have recognized him, because he’s staring right at him, a slight furrow in his brow. He points to Yuki's fencing bag.
“Vous avez aussi un escrimeur?”
Yuki blinks before realizing he’s talking to him. He shakes his head.
“No, français non.”
The other guy looks even more confused now, pointing to his bag.
“English?”
Yuki nods.
“You are here for fencing?”
There’s a tentative smile growing on Gasly's face now, clearly excited to meet another fencer. He nudges the guy beside him, who looks deeply immersed in his phone. Pierre's English is… passable, at best. A bit scruffy and weirdly accented, not in the ways Yuki has heard throughout his time in international school, but then again, this trip to France was sufficiently proving that he clearly knew pitifully little about international travel.
“Ah, um yeah.”
Yuki offers a smile, partially because the other man's glee is currently palpably contagious, but also because he doesn’t know what else to do. Pierre Gasly obviously doesn’t remember him, so he can’t just strike up conversation without first admitting that the two of them had competed in the same categories for the past, what, half a decade? It’s a bit insulting, actually, the fact that after 6 years, from U-15 to Senior that Gasley doesn’t remember him.
After receiving confirmation, Pierre only seems to be more thrilled, immediately introducing himself, then promptly launching into a string of questioning in rapid English that Yuki barely understands half of. He sits there, nodding slowly, and trying not to cringe when he looks at him, blue eyes expectant of an answer.
Yuki asks him to repeat the question, and Pierre apologizes before pulling out his phone, and showing him an email with INSEP’s summer program on it.
“Yuki Tsunoda. And yeah,”
He nods, voice coming out a bit too squeaky.
“You do, sabre?”
Yuki asks, trying his very best to look surprised when Pierre nods. It must’ve worked because Pierre laughs and pats him on the shoulder, and says something- but over the rattle of the train cart, the only words he catches is, “luck” and "coincidence".
Thinking back on it, it’s quite different, seeing someone that was only ever a competitor in casual clothing, loose-limbed, relaxed, and grinning. Sure, well, Yuki’s catched glances of who they were beyond the piste, whether in hotel lobbies or airport waiting lounges, but this is.. different?
Tousled brown hair in messy short curls, golden skin with a slight radiance not dimmed even under the harsh lights of the metro. He didn’t need to be a fencer to guess that this guy was either an athlete or a model.
By now, Pierres managed to get his friends' attention, who is still engrossed with whatever is on that screen. He looks at Yuki for a second before turning his attention back to his device.
Whether Yuki was recognized or not remains a mystery. It’s honestly not that big of a deal, on actuality terms, he wasn’t in the same age category as the other two, and European competitions were never his cup of tea anyways.
The rest of the metro ride goes in a silence, with Pierre spewing occasional remarks, asking a few questions here and there that Yuki manages to answer in stumbled English.
—
If Yuki had to be thankful for one thing about Pierre’s presence it’s that the guy understands French a lot better than he does, so when the broken PA system plays a garbled message that leaves a strange ringing sound, it's Pierre that notifies him that this is their stop.
Charles Leclerc finally looks up from his phone, and the trio squeeze their way through the dense French crowd, each hauling a fencing bag that would’ve easily been overweight at customs. Yuki ends up dragging his bag out of the station, which earns him a laugh from Pierre.
“Your bag is going to break if you keep doing that.”
Yuki rolls his eyes.
“It’ll live.”
He responds, voice flat.
Pierre lets out a cackle, but the Frenchman seriously doubts it, considering the seams are fraying, and the original text at the bottom spelling out Yuki's name is half gone.
The streets of Paris buzz with the typical energy of starry-eyed travellers and workers running around, which naturally means that someone’s going to bump into you in every direction.
(And probably curse you out in whatever language under their breath.)
—
After the visceral Parisian heat, stepping into the fully air-conditioned, permanently 21 degrees Christian D’Oriola Complex might’ve just been the equivalent of heaven.
There’s people gathered in loose arrays already, a few familiar faces running around and doing warm ups, some talking with the coaches, and a few catching up with old friends. Yuki scans the perimeter.
Thank God.
He catches Misaki by the bench, stretching out her legs and moving her wrists back and forth. She waves when she sees him.
“Good to see you finally show up,”
She remarks playfully as Yuki sets down his bag by the wall.
“France is nice isn’t it?”
She asks as he sits down besides her.
Yuki laughs awkwardly, he can’t tell if it’s sarcasm or not, but there’s an overwhelming amount of sincerity put into that statement, so he just shrugs.
“It’s, I mean, it takes a while to get used to.”
He sits down besides her, crossed legged and trying to grab a mat without looking, which almost knocks over his water bottle. She giggles.
As they talk, it soon becomes very clear that Misaki’s life is much more interesting than his. For one, she actually got a roommate, who has been (according to her Instagram stories) taking her out every other night to a different party in the city. Yuki wouldn't exactly say that he’s jealous— being stuck between rambunctious strangers who borderline sexually harass you under the guise of dancing didn’t sound anything like what he called “fun”.
To each their own, he supposes.
By this time, more people had arrived at the complex, slowly filling the previously empty training gym. In the corner of his eye, he spots Verstappen saying something to Leclerc, who mouths something he doesn’t quite catch. He also sees the “Papaya Pals”, both in those horridly papaya club shirts that screamed McLaren from a mile away.
After a brief jog and the coaches introductions (which was, frankly, the most bizarre and pompous introductions Yuki’s ever received), the group gets sent for a tour of the new complex.
Christian Horner, Toto Wolff, and Fred Vasseur, every other big name in the industry. He wouldn’t be surprised if half of the coaches leave after the first hour. The arrogance is radiated, some more subtle than others, in every word. Yuki wants to roll his eyes.
The first half of the day passes in a blur of procedures, tours of locker rooms, and mild indoctrination from the INSEP team, who are evangelically praising this new complex as the future of the sport. It’s a whole lot of fluff, Yuki wants to roll his eyes, again.
They’re dismissed for lunch at around 12. Yukis massages his temples, his head hurting from all the information, the subtle implications of it all. He’s not sure he can even stomach lunch right now.
Nonetheless, he slings his bag around his shoulder, and as he steps outside, the midday sun in all its fierce fire forces him to put his cap back on.
He has a location for a local restaurant saved somewhere in his photos, a popular spot currently trending on Instagram. It has good reviews, too good actually, which could mean it’s just a tourist trap.
It opens with a jingle, revealing a bustling restaurant with servers moving like a blur, dashing from table to table, the loud cacophonic sounds of talking accompanied with soft jazz in the background. He’s seated by a girl who looks around his age, who hands him a menu and then gets immediately called away.
It takes him a minute to register that the menu is purely in French.
There’s not even any photos, just tiny swiggly handwritten letters on a page, the only eligible word being the big bolded “MENU” on the top of the page. Yes, real helpful that is.
He pretends to read the menu while craning his neck to see what others are ordering, the other table seemed to have ordered a platter of some sort of duck-confit, with golden buttery mashed potatoes and perfectly sautéed duck meat. The problem is that there isn’t a single word that resembles “confit” or “duck” on the menu.
He should just leave and go somewhere else at this point. It’d save him the embarrassment of his server looking at him expectantly every time she walked around, which would be 5 times in the past 2 minutes.
—
He really regrets not asking the server if she spoke English.
After stalking out of the restaurant without ordering anything, embarrassment burning hot on his heels, he had found a small sandwich joint and simply chose to spend his money there.
It’s not bad, certainly not good, edible at best.
—
These people are slightly terrifying.
The coaches waste no time after lunch to start drills.
It starts simple enough, sprints up and down the piste, jumps, lunges, whatever.
Except for the part where Verstappen and Russell are tussling over who can do them the fastest. With the resonating sound of a clap, the two practically explode out of their spots, not conserving a serving of energy.
It’s the first fucking day.
What the hell are these people on?
Maybe this is what it takes to be an Olympic Champion, and as much as Yuki would love to, his calves are also going to collapse onto themselves.
Quality over quantity, right?
Everyone is trying their best, trying to leave the best impression of an aspiring young talent under the scouring eyes of the coaches. And whether it be through being a try-hard, or going five meters in every lunge, or extending (really) way too wide like Lawson was doing, Yuki has to admit that the dedication is admirable.
Yuki likes to think that he’s keeping up pretty well because so far, Horner hasn’t glared at him or yelled “faster!” at his face. It’s that, or these coaches really don’t give a shit about him.
After all, they all show minor affection through attention. (Un)Fortunately, Yuki has no idea whether or not he wants the old guy's attention. Sure, having a world-class coach would be great, but the guy’s also banned in half of the Middle East for harassment.
He’s zoning out when Pierre claps a hand on his back, and tilts his head to one side, revealing a side of his neck. His skin is sun-bathed and golden, not tanned, but bronze. There’s a thin golden necklace that rests under his shirt, glinting under the light from the sweat.
He smells like rust and oranges and sugary cologne.
“Fence?”
Pierre asks, pointing between the two of them. Yuki blanks because first of all why?
Second of all, huh?
“Um-”
“It’ll be fun, let’s go.”
He doesn’t even wait for Yuki’s response before walking away.
Fun for Pierre, Yuki supposes, to fence him. With those legs, it’ll be a miracle if he needs to lunge at all to hit Yuki.
The two end up fencing anyway, simply because Yuki doesn’t know how to reject someone politely enough in English without flipping them off.
The smart thing to do would be to be polite, charming, opaquely beige and try to pretend to be just another Junior Star turned Senior Let-Down.
Yuki carries that sentiment, being smart and all, until he realizes Pierre does not.
But Pierre is serious about this.
Pierre is trying, when he can win perfectly without.
It’s an odd dissonance.
Pierre— who’s delighted when Yuki lunges the second the ref yells allé.
Pierre— who looks mildly disappointed when Yuki gives up trying to defend against his attack and just lets him hit him.
Is this a European thing? Is it what, disrespectful to them, not trying?
The smart thing would be to play dumb and let this whole thing go. To not reveal too much.
Yet it’s exactly what Pierre’s doing. And either he’s an Oscar-winning actor, or actually stupid, but Yukis can already sense his little habits.
The tension in his left arm when he’s about to faint. The prepared open of his arm in the way all French do before a lunge, the way he taps his thigh when he's thinking.
It shouldn’t bother him, the way Pierre frowns for a split-second when Yuki throws another hit.
It shouldn’t, but it does. He has a good idea why.
It’s a risk, but visibility is what he’s here for, no?
Faint.
Pierre goes forward, Yuki pulls back, just enough, Pierre sees through it immediately. He doesn’t hesitate when he lunges. He thinks Yuki is going for a prep.
Okay.
Parry 4, Pierre reacts quickly, too quickly, and shifts to hit head instead, damn his experience.
Yuki pulls his arm up instead, and delivers a clean skyhook with a deafening clang. His breath hitches.
No one turns to look. It’s almost better this way, because it’s just Pierre who looks at him like a man who had just struck gold. The same way scientists look when they discover a new element.
He doesn’t know what to expect, but Pierre is looking at him half angry, half in awe, still stuck in a lunge.
“You got lucky!”
He exclaimed, finally getting up. Yuki can see that sunny smile, even under the mask.
“Tell yourself that.”
Yuki snaps back, but there’s really no harm behind it, just adrenaline and pure glee of getting a good hit.
The next point, Yuki is almost going to prep Piere, but he watches for one more second, just because, and Pierre pulls back. He tries to accelerate, but then stops. Tries to steady his breathing. Pierre’s blade is taking up distance, dangerously hovering near his wrist.
Slow, slow, slow, and then Yuki flunges, his arm whipping across Pierre's torso before he could react.
Pierre is resigned when he signals a point.
“Still luck?”
The rush of getting a few good hits embeds a sense of giddy excitement into his steps.
Pierre just shakes his head.
—
It feels good to be able to fence someone who you want to win against.
—
The bout ends up as 11 - 15. Yuki doesn’t mind losing per se, but he’s still sure that the last point was definitely his. He’s sitting on one of the benches, haunched over with a bottle of water in one hand, and the other rested absent mindedly at his side, rubbing against an old bruise.
It becomes a hobby, people watching. The sound of shoes on the metallic piste, sabres hitting helmets with a clandestine clang. The beeping of the machines, blades against blades.
Paris humidity is much worse than Tokyo, meaning that every drip of moisture clings to skin like cobwebs instead of a salve.
It’s really going to ruin his hair.
Norris is fencing Piastri, the budding senior icon who managed to win titles just his first year in. Yuki would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous. He’s a clean fencer, and with the refereeing state of the world lying on the hinges of collapse, it’s a great advantage.
He pulls back sharply before Lando could hit him, and then delivers a textbook riposte. His form is immaculate. Yuki considers asking him to fence, but then Sainz walks over and taps Oscar’s shoulder, and he nods. Off they’ll go.
Maybe tomorrow.
Max Verstappen’s fencing can be surveyed audibly because of how loud his footwork is. That paired with Leclerc, who methodically French-splains why it’s his point every double light means there’s more talking then fencing going on. Toto Wolff walks over and yells at the two of them to “just fence”.
Even in Japan, Yuki’s heard the rumours. Toto Wolff would probably immigrate to Netherlands just to coach Max Verstappen— practically half the world has heard the coach drunkenly shit-talk the Netherlands team for “holding back such a talent”.
Yuki has no idea how Toto Wolff would somehow drag the Netherland Team to the Olympics and win medals, but that’s probably why he isn’t a coach.
He’s zoning out when Liam Lawson, lame half zipped down, mask in one hand taps his shoulder.
“Fence?”
Yuki instinctively sits up a bit straighter, and then nods, grabbing his glove.
“Yeah, okay.”
Pushing himself off the bench, he reaches for the box. His hands hook the wires up instinctively, it’s something he’s done at least a trillion times before, and something he’s ready to do a trillion times more. They operate as their own agent, clasping the hook, his own brain racing to recall how Lawson fenced.
All he remembers is that this guy yells really loud when he gets a point. He’s pretty fast right? Really aggressive attacks, likes to remis. Rarely counterattacks, but maybe that was the other blond guy.
At the signal of allé, Yuki pushes out with 2 fast steps, Lawson uses slow preparation and he really does not have the patience to do this right now, so he just lunges.
Fuck.
Went as well as that could’ve.
Parry. At least Yuki manages to get out of the way before he could reposte. Maintain distance, maintain, maintain. Lawson must've been trying a new style, it’s much more passive, taking his time without the big jumps everyone likes doing nowadays.
Damn those Koreans for popularizing the fucking jumps.
Lawson flunges at Yuki's arm, which is in line. Yuki pulls himself backwards as fast as he can, his torso moving back before his legs can catch up, stuck in an awkward position.
Blade contact, he has no idea who hit where, so he just goes for it.
2 lights.
1 - 0 for him.
Lawson says something about Yuki hitting his guard, and the ref just shakes his head. He hopes the NAC officials this year can be just half as competent as this one.
The next point was really stupid— frustratingly so. Lawson makes a stupidly sloppy preparation without any intent at all, so he takes that as an opportunity to take the priority, but Lawson just extends his fucking arm and that was that.
Fine. It’s fine.
Reset, next point.
He ends up failing to fall short him, and manages to scrape by a counterattack positioned neatly under his elbow. The guy has a habit of raising his arm just before he attacks, just slightly though, or else he would’ve never made it to this level.
Lawson grumbles when the light goes off for Yuki's side, obviously frustrated with himself.
—
Yuki wins that match, and Liam Lawson holds his hand out to high five him after the salute. He has enough manners to not leave the guy hanging, and afterwards, Liam claps him on the back, and nods.
“Good match.”
“Yeah, you too. Your attacks are um,”
He searches for the word.
“Great, yeah they are very good.”
Lawson laughs, shaking his head, beads of sweat dripping from his blond hair. He has it pinned back with a zig-zagging head band of sorts, it’s actually pretty smart. Yuki reminds himself to ask him where he got it from.
“No need to lie, you know?”
“Nono, I’m serious.”
“The same goes for you mate, good job.”
“Thank you, thanks.”
Lawson takes his wire back to the machine before walking off.
—
“I’d like to guess you had a good day?”
Misaki is buzzing with energy, radiating excitement within each step.
“What’s the matter?”
She asks, coyfully sweet.
“Didn’t have a good day?”
Yuki scowls.
“You wish.”
Misakis always had a clear distinction between him, whether through the monumental gap in their rankings to the fact that wherever she goes, there’s a starry eyed girl who probably has posters of her in their bedroom following her.
For one, she’s a social butterfly and extroverted to a fault. Another, every move she does is jotted down and thoroughly analyzed to be recreated.
Her hair is bleached bright blond, she takes every liberty. Because it doesn’t matter what she looks like, she’s still Misaki Emura, N1 in FIE Leaderboards.
Yeah, maybe Yuki does wish.
—
The afternoon passes in a hurry, ending with a few skittish juniors running up to him and asking to fence. It makes him feel old, because it felt like yesterday when he was the one begging the Seniors for only 5 points.
He reaches out, stretching his hamstrings until he can hear them creek out in pain. His thighs are sore, muscles still not used to the workload after a week of doing exactly nothing. He left his muscle roller in his locker back in Tokyo, which means he has to repeatedly punch his own legs to relieve the pressure.
It doesn’t help.
A towel rests on his shoulders, not really doing much beyond making him itch.
He usually never takes afternoon sessions, too caught between the commute from school to the club and the endless homework his teachers never cut him any slack for.
Thus, most of his classes were in the afternoon or at night, where the lights of a blazing Tokyo skyline made it clear he wasn’t the only one awake chasing something beyond reach.
So it’s new, fencing in France. It’s too hot, too warm, too much light and too much talking.
The coaches end up giving them some sort of pep talk afterwards about first introductions and getting used to training with your “biggest adversaries”.
What’s with coaches and giving long speeches?
He stands up and reaches out for his phone right as a message appears on his notifications board.
母:
“we hope you had a good first day!! have fun in france yukichi!!”
He doesn’t know what to say. Should he say he’s having fun? The day had been okay so far— average, nothing much to text home about.
君:
“It was very fun. Hope you’re doing well in Japan”
Yuki knows what his mom means when she says “we”. She wants to remind him that both of his parents support this “little endeavour” of his, no matter how “childish” it is. How thoughtful.
母:
“good, good!! good luck!!”
He hesitates.
Doesn’t know what to say. Wants to ask how his dad is taking things, also wants to never have to think about this ever again.
So he doesn’t say anything. (It says everything).
He sets his phone on his bench to pack up his bag, zipping it up and resting at the side of the wall, where a whole entourage of bags are already piled up.
—
The INSEP complex is luminescent and broad and hollow when he leaves. Lights that glow fluorescent, machines beeping and flickering with every touch. Gleaming, like what it promises. Flickering, like the reality it weathers.
There’s still people lingering behind, stretching, some still fencing, others just gathering in clusters talking.
It feels right to fence here, to try and chase that state of focus, to hit and to parry and to be an athlete. But beyond that, it feels wrong to linger. For no good reason at all, he feels a bit apologetic, lingering at the front of the building, waiting for the subway to arrive before stepping out.
It’s a bit ridiculous.
People walk into and out of the building, Misaki walks by, hooked in arms with her girlfriends, tapping his shoulder and smiling as she leaves. People scurry in with bags on their shoulders, a traffic, a wave. Yuki stands like a pebble in the middle of a stream, water trailing around him, going their own paths.