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“I’ve figured it out,” Eren says as soon as his call is answered on the sixth ring of the fifth consecutive phone call.
“Eren?” Armin answers blearily from the other end. “Eren, it’s… It’s nearly four in the morning.”
“Huh?” His eyes flick to the tiny numbers at the top of his laptop. Huh. So it is. “Whatever, that’s not important—”
“I mean, I was sleeping—”
“—what’s important is that I’ve figured it out,” Eren says again, gripping his phone tightly. There’s a heavy sigh and groan on the other end of the line.
“Figured what out?” Armin asks, voice heavy, and Eren grins manically.
“I’m at a height disadvantage!” Eren exclaims. “That’s the only thing that explains it. You know, usually, to achieve height in your jumps you have to have height yourself, but I think Levi Ackerman can get the height and distance in his jumps because he’s more compact than the rest of us.”
“Oh my god.”
“Right?! So now I just need to focus on compensating for that. Is there a way to compensate for that scoring wise? I guess I could change the double to a triple in the combination at the end of my free program, but I don’t know if Hannes will let me considering I threw up after rehearsing the other day, but—”
“I can’t believe you called me at four in the morning to talk about Levi Ackerman,” Armin grouses. “I’m going back to bed. Stop watching Levi’s free skates from the last decade and get some sleep.” The line clicks dead, and Eren stares at the phone in shock. Had Armin just hung up on him?
In reality, Eren’s not surprised. Armin is his best friend, but he’s never really understood all of the intricacies of competitive ice skating, even if he is the smartest person Eren knows. At least he’s good at math, and understands the scoring system way better than Eren himself does.
Eren looks at the screen of his laptop, where a YouTube video is paused on Levi Ackerman’s 2010 Cup of China FS. It’s set to Chopin’s Les Sylphides, and will end up being the program that wins him his first gold at the Grand Prix Final a month later in the very same rink. Eren sighs, resting his cheek in his hand, eyes traveling the clean lines of Levi’s paused figure in the middle of a combination spin, poised in a flawless Biellmann. How anyone, even Armin, can’t see the pure beauty and artistry when Levi Ackerman skates is beyond him.
He blinks rapidly, dragging the player back to the start of the performance, Levi’s face composed and calm as he prepares to take to the ice. He’s so much younger, just shy of 19—only a little younger than Eren is currently. It’s a reminder that Eren is fully capable of taking gold in his first ever Grand Prix Series.
And that Levi’s time on the ice is dwindling.
“Don’t retire yet,” Eren tells the figure on the screen tiredly, dragging his finger across the image. Shit, he needs to go to bed. Hannes is going to beat his ass tomorrow for not getting any sleep. Eren yawns, considers his laptop screen, and hits play. He’ll just watch the program a few more times. It is his favorite, after all.
*
The ice is marred with countless lines, cutting through and across it like a spiderweb, and Eren’s blades easily fall into the grooves of the figure eights he’s been cutting as well as the paths his rinkmates had traveled. He’s alone now, save for Armin, who is studiously fixated on his tablet and not on Eren. It’s the most alone he can be at the rink, though, on Hannes’ orders.
(“You don’t think of these things,” Hannes had said, arms crossed and eyes furious. “If you fell out there on the ice by yourself, then what?” Eren had held up his cell phone, and been rewarded with a sharp smack to the back of his head.
So Armin comes with him now, usually with the promise of pølse afterwards.)
Skating has always calmed him. He knows he can get a little over-excited, a little hot-headed. That he’s prone to throwing up his blinders and pushing forward like a steam engine with little regard to where he’s actually going and what he’s ignoring or bulldozing over in order to get there. His mother tells him it was worse, when he was younger. That sometimes the only thing that got him to behave was the promise of going up the hill to the iced over lake in the wintertime, where Eren was, as his mother liked to say, “as mellow and obedient as a dove.”
Eren might not consider himself a dove, but he’d certainly taken to skating like a duck to water. He had a natural talent for it, and with time grew in his confidence and skill as a skater, relying it on the one thing in his life he consistently did not fail at. Unfortunately, there was little opportunity for him to flourish as a skater in Triberg, and he knew too little of the world of ice skating to ever try to reach further.
It wasn’t until he was 13 and saw Levi Ackerman’s performance at the 2010 Grand Prix Series on his family’s ancient computer that Eren even considered the possibility of his hobby becoming something more.
At 14, he participated in his first local juniors competition in Stuttgart. He had no formal training, no coach, and no experience in the competition circuit.
And he lost.
Horrendously.
“Don’t you ever rest when I tell you to?” Hannes voice echoes across the ice, and Eren pivots quickly to face him, startled.
“I am resting,” Eren retorts, falling into an easy backwards glide, a grin on his face. Hannes raises an eyebrow silently, before turning to Armin.
“He’s trying to turn the double toe loop at the end of his combination into a triple,” Armin says easily, never looking up from his tablet, and Eren gasps.
“Armin!”
“Another triple, Eren?” Hannes turns to him, frowning. “In your combination jump? That combination is in the second half of your free program.”
Eren comes to a stop on the ice, grabbing his arm self consciously and shrugging.
“Okay, yeah, I know, but—”
“You’re already pushing yourself doing a quad-triple-double, you touch down with your hand on the landing more times in practice than not, you don’t have the stamina—”
“No, really, I can do it! I know I can do it!” Eren feels anger rush hot and sharp up his spine, making his skin prickly and warm even out on the ice. “If I practice it a little more, I know I can—”
“We leave for Canada tomorrow!” Hannes cuts in. He’s using his coaching voice. The voice he only uses when Eren has really, really fucked up, or really, really gotten on his nerves. The fierce look on his face softens, and Hannes sighs, tugging a hand through his cropped hair. “I know you admire the guy, Eren, but you’re not Levi Ackerman.”
Eren stares down at the ice, teeth sharp in his lip, and gives a tight nod.
He knows he can do the triple. He knows he can, even if Hannes doesn’t believe him. He might be struggling to even land the double at the end, being so close to the end of his program, but it’ll be different once he’s in competition. Once there are stakes.
Eren has always performed best under pressure, and this time, he’s under the most pressure he’s ever been under. He’s qualified for the Grand Prix series for the first time in his career, and is the only male German skater with a high enough TES to even qualify. He’s been a nobody in terms of figure skating since Marta became his coach after his failure in Stuttgart. She had taken something raw and polished it, but Hannes has turned him into the potential champion he is. He’d seen the gem of Eren’s talent and known exactly how to harness it to its fullest potential.
He knows he wouldn’t have taken gold at German Nationals last season without him.
“I know you like to let off steam on the ice, but at this rate, you’re over practicing. The last thing you need is an injury four days before Skate Canada.” Hannes voice is gentler, and he holds up Eren’s skate guards with a forced look of patience. Eren sighs, loosening the lines of his body and skating over to the boards.
Eren stops just before exiting the ice, resting his elbows on the barricade and tilting his head inquisitively at his coach.
“You really don’t think I could land that last triple?” He hedges again.
“Eren.” Hannes’ voice is hard as steel, and Eren flashes his palms, placatingly. “Just skate it the way you did in practice.” Hannes claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got this.” He gives a squeeze. “You know you’ve got this.”
Eren flashes a grin at him, because he does know that. He has both of his routines down. His skating is the best its been in his career. Hannes has nursed a fledgling into a bird, and Eren is ready to fly.
But he’s still going to do the triple, even if Hannes doesn’t think he can.
Because Skate Canada is a lot of firsts for Eren, but the biggest one is that he will be sharing the ice with Levi Ackerman for the first time. Levi Ackerman will see Eren skate, and Eren wants to show him that he can do this.
He can do this.
He can win.
*
It’s raining when they land at Toronto Pearson International Airport. Nothing potentially damning that would have had their flight canceled or severely delayed, thankfully, although they do spend longer on the tarmac than anyone on the plane is happy about. The rain isn’t particularly heavy, and outside the tiny square window of the airplane, the landscape is shrouded in what looks more like mist. It’s all very magical, although that might just be the fact that this is Eren’s first venture across the Atlantic. Hannes had threatened to sedate him at their layover in New York, because Eren kept taking pictures of and with everything, exclaiming things in German and then in English.
By the time they make their way off the plane, Hannes’ entire body is sagging with exhaustion, and Eren knows the only thing keeping him upright is adrenaline. It’s well into the evening in Toronto, but back in Oslo, it’s late. Not later than Eren usually stays up, but he also just spent the last 15 hours traveling and he knows he’ll be feeling it soon.
He stops Hannes once before they reach baggage claim to buy a map.
“Put it away,” Hannes tells him as they make their way to the baggage carousel. It’s on, but empty. “We’re here for nearly a week, and you have plenty of time to sight-see.”
“I’m not tired,” Eren counters, because he doesn’t feel tired.
(Yet.)
There’s a jittery feeling all the way down to his bones, and if Eren wasn’t so intent to go out and see this new and strange place from end-to-end, he would consider hitting the rink. He could probably skate every single program in his repertoire with this much energy.
Hannes’ hand lands heavy on his shoulder, giving him a firm pat.
“You have a competition in a few days. Don’t push yourself.” Hannes’ pat turns into a gentle shove. “Except in practice, ja?”
“Ja, ja,” Eren concedes, but only because the longer they wait for their fucking suitcases, the more tired he feels, his energy flagging as it’s replaced with boredom.
Once they finally make it to their hotel, Eren is exhausted to the point of nearly throwing a tantrum, and Hannes is quick to send him off to their room once they have their keycards. He also mentions something about badges and checking-in, but Eren is already halfway to the elevator banks by the time the words even register.
“Ah, hold the elevator!” He calls, stumbling far too easily over his own feet for someone who spends about 70% of their time in ice skates, and all but collapses against the elevator when he manages to make it. He’s sure another elevator would have been down any moment, but every second between him and his pillow at this point is torture.
“Floor?” The single other person in the elevator asks.
“Ah.” Eren shakes the hair out of his eyes, blinking tiredly. “Eigh—oh my god, you’re Hanji Zoë.”
His elevator partner is Hanji Zoë, who blinks at him owlishly behind their glasses, and then smiles.
“Eight, you said?” They hum and press the button, and neither confirm nor deny that they are Hanji Zoë. Eren stares, sure that his mouth is open, and wishes he would say something.
By the time Eren had discovered international figure skating, Hanji Zöe had already retired, but that didn’t mean their legacy wasn’t a staple of the sport. An Australian skater, they had entered the ladies singles as a junior, becoming The Skater to Watch with their beautifully executed but heavily technical performances and penchant for pairing masculine costumes with feminine music, and vice versa. They swept competitions their first three years of their senior career, and then immediately announced that they had outgrown the Woman’s circuit and would begin participating in the Men’s competitions.
Their career literally rocked the foundations of figure skating.
Ask for a picture. For an autograph. Anything.
You’re literally five feet from a LEGEND. Say SOMETHING.
Talk about how you’re a skater. How this is your first Grand Prix. About winning Nationals last year.
Mention literally anything.
In fact do anything other than stare. Say any words. Any words will do.
Wait, if Hanji Zoë is here, that means—?!
“You’re coaching Levi Ackerman.”
Okay, he did say any words, and those words, even if they aren’t the best ones.
Hanji Zoë lets out a short bark of a laugh.
“Coaching. Sure. Let’s call it that.” They grin at him. “Hey, I know you.”
What?!
“You got gold at the German Nationals last year, right? Jaeger?”
Did he say that out loud? He must have, there’s no way someone like Hanji Zöe would know that.
“Uh—”
“Pity you didn’t participate in the European Championships. I’m sure you would have made quite a showing at Worlds, eh?” Hanji Zoë grins at him again, and Eren is sure at this point that he’s dreaming. There is no way Hanji Zoë knows who he is, much less anything about his skating career. “This year, right?”
“I…” Eren’s mouth flaps like a fish. He’s not often speechless, but it’s hard not to be when a literal living legend in figure skating is praising you. “I’ll have to place at the Grand Prix o-or the European Championships, yeah.”
“You got that in the bag, kiddo. I’ve seen what you can do. The speed of your choreography, your step sequences in particular, is breathtaking. Oh!” The elevator stops on the seventh floor. “This is me. Goodnight, Eren Jaeger.” They do a little wave of their fingers, and then they’re gone, the elevator doors gliding shut and shielding them from Eren’s gaping stare.
What just happened?
By the time Eren’s head connects with his pillow, he’s sure it was all some crazy vivid hallucination. It’s the only way it makes any sense.
*
His eyes open to darkness, without the aide of an alarm. Which is weird because Eren hardly ever wakes up before noon without Armin physically rolling him out of bed, or Hannes instructing him to be at the rink at a certain time.
(Eren only ever sets an alarm for skating.)
But they’re in Canada early, as per Eren’s request. He missed Worlds in Boston last year, and he had wanted some time before the competition to be a North American tourist. Hannes had begrudgingly complied, and now Eren can do Canadian things, like meet a moose and eat poutine. And what was that place Armin told him about? Tom Something-or-Other? Whatever it is, Eren definitely has to go there, too.
Unfortunately, it’s just barely 5am locally, and Eren doubts Hannes would appreciate being woken up before the sun or having Eren disappear two days before what is one of the biggest events of his life. Making the podium at Skate Canada will put Eren one step closer to his first international competition, and just the thought has him catapulting out of bed (as quietly as he can manage) and into the bathroom.
It might be too early to meet a moose, but it’s never too early to skate.
(…probably.)
And Hannes will probably be too ecstatic that Eren chose practice over sight-seeing and forget that he told Eren never to practice alone. All around, it’s a pretty solid plan.
His stomach growls, and he hopes there’s someplace in the hotel that serves breakfast this early.
*
The rink isn’t open when he gets there.
And he’s really not sure if it’s supposed to open at 6am, or if the staff that’s prepping for the event take pity on him after watching him wait outside for twenty minutes. Either way, he’s grateful. He babbles at the woman who unlocks the doors for him in excited German, grins sheepishly, and then switches to English, and her laugh is effectively charmed as she shows him the way to the locker rooms and then points out how to get to the rink.
“Just don’t get in the way,” she reminds him, and after making several assurances that he won’t, she hurries away to get back to work and Eren is left with a blissfully empty and silent rink. It feels like Christmas has come early.
The ice is perfectly polished, and his body nearly shakes with nerves as he laces his skates. He’s been the first to take to the ice back at his home rink in Oslo, but it never fails to fill him with an innate sense of glee. There’s just something about looking down and knowing that every cut, every line, every knick, is one that he made.
He has no music, but he doesn’t need it, tracing circles around the edge of the rink and then cutting figures when he gets bored, letting his body reacquaint itself with the motions before he tries anything more strenuous. He’s been focusing heavily on his jumps, and while they aren’t perfect, they’re solid (well, that triple at the end of his combination withstanding, but he’ll… He’ll get it down). He knows his step sequence could use some attention—after all, they’re what he’s known for, and he’d hate not to deliver.
Eren rocks his head back and forth a bit, humming the music softly to himself until he can get a feel for the rhythm. Once he finds it, he saves his breath for skating, the lyrics and melody running through his mind reliable enough for a solo practice.
It needs to be tighter. He runs it again.
Faster. Again.
He forgot his arms that time. Again.
“Jaeger, right?”
Eren doesn’t stumble. His foot glides around easily, breaking him out of his step and stilling him in a gracefulness he only ever has on the ice. But just because he managed to keep his composure, and his footing, doesn’t mean the voice doesn’t surprise him—and not just because he had thought he was alone.
He knows that voice.
And when he looks over to the guard, there is Levi fucking Ackerman, watching him like they’ve been rinkmates for five years.
Eren’s rather eloquent response is, “Uh…”
First he dreams about meeting Hanji Zöe in an elevator, and now Levi Ackerman is watching him skate? Eren tries to remember if he accepted those sleeping pills from Hannes on the flight from Norway, because that’s the only thing that would be able to explain all of this.
“You took gold at the German Nationals last year?” Levi continues, looking slightly irate as he does so.
“Yeah?” Eren asks, like it wasn’t one of the best moments of his life. He’d cried on national television and hadn’t even felt embarrassed about it afterwards.
Levi nods to himself, and then falls silent, eyes drifting away from Eren to take in the full expanse of the ring, and Eren just… Stands there. Not saying anything. Despite the fact that the best figure skater of their generation is right there. His idol. If Eren’s not careful, he’s going to start babbling about how he’s seen every single one of Levi’s performances, how he draws inspiration from them, how he mixes and matches his favorite parts into his own choreography.
It’s the only thing that makes any of this feel real. If this was a dream, Eren would not be having a sudden onset of being utterly starstruck. He would be suave, and friendly, and eloquent. Levi would treat him like an old friend and a worthy competitor.
“Are you here by yourself?”
Then again, Levi is, like, actually talking to him, so maybe it is a dream? Because it’s not exactly a secret that Levi kind of hates everyone. He doesn’t socialize with any of the other skaters. He skates, he wins gold, he goes home to train some more. Hell, he’s being trained by Hanji Zöe and their relationship seems strained at best.
“Are all German skaters such airheads? No wonder no one from your country has made it to the Grand Prix Finals in a decade.”
“I’m sorry, what?” That sounded like an insult, but in all honesty, Eren is still trying to make sense of what is happening and isn’t really paying much attention to, well… What is happening.
And even if it was an insult, it was one of Levi Ackerman’s insults. How many people can say they’ve been insulted by The Levi Ackerman?
(Probably quite a few, but Eren’s never been one of them before this moment, so he’s going to cherish it either way.)
“I asked if you were here by yourself.” If possible, the glower on Levi’s face darkens. It’s… A little terrifying.
(But also, ohmygod, Levi Ackerman is glaring at him.)
On the ice, Levi is the epitome of poise. His programs have always been incredibly emotional, but they’ve always made Eren feel a sense of peace. Levi was just so put together on the ice, it was hard not to see how calm and steady he was. It was like taking deep, even breaths. When he was younger, before he had indulged in reading far too many interviews and watching hundreds of video segments, Eren had always assumed that being around Levi would be… Grounding. Comforting.
That is the furthest from what Eren is feeling right in that moment.
“Uh, ja.” Eren ruffles his hair. “Yes,” he corrects, after a moment. Levi has been to nearly every country in the world at this point, but Eren has a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate a sudden onslaught of German. “My coach is still asleep. It was a long journey from Norway.”
The time difference must be of very little consequence to Levi, who only had to come up from California.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
This time, Eren is startled enough by the insult that one of his skates slides slightly of its own accord, and he scrambles for a moment, desperate to keep his balance. He does manage to find it, and can at least be thankful that he didn’t fall on his face in front of his idol.
When he looks over, the look that greets him is simultaneously livid and aloof.
(Intense.)
“Uh—”
“Skating by yourself, you want to get fucking injured?”
It’s the same argument that Hannes always gives him, but this is different. Well, duh, it’s different, Hannes was a respectable skater in his time, but he wasn’t a legend. He wasn’t Levi Ackerman. And in all the places Eren would talk back, would get agitated or angry, there’s… Nothing.
He stares at Levi blankly.
“And people feel bad for my coach.” His voice is lower, like he’s not exactly talking to Eren anymore. He leans his elbows on the guard wall. “You must be a fucking handful.”
“How long have you been here?” Eren is surprised to hear his own voice. Levi stares back at him, impassive and unimpressed. “In the rink?”
Almost as if the action bores him, Levi pulls out his phone.
“Maybe twenty minutes,” he says, like he isn’t quite sure why the information is important.
Some tension eases out of Eren’s shoulders, and he glides back on his skates a bit, letting himself smile as his brain starts to function at a base level again.
“Then I wasn’t really by myself.” He gives a shrug, letting his body fall into lazy figures again, more so that he can concentrate on Levi and less on what his feet are doing.
Levi looks momentarily gobsmacked by Eren’s statement, but it quickly smooths back into his neutral, uninterested expression.
“Fucking smart ass.”
Eren twists his face away just enough to smirk a little bit.
Even though he is now catching up with the fact that Levi has been quietly standing there, watching him skate the same thing over and over and over and over again. The revelation causes the curve of Eren’s skate to turn into a sharp pivot, and he has to quickly dig his toe pick into the ice to avoid falling.
(…again.)
When he glances over to see if Levi noticed, he’s gone. Eren feels disappointment well up in him immediately—I didn’t ask him what he thought of my skating, I didn’t ask for a selfie, I didn’t ask how he really felt to win his first gold medal at 19, I didn’t—and he swings his head around, wondering if maybe he’ll at least catch sight of Levi’s retreating back.
Instead, he finds Levi at the entrance to the ice, pulling off his skate guards and then stepping onto the ice.
Eren is positive that he stops breathing for a few moments.
(He’s on the same ice as Levi Ackerman.
He’s on the same ice as LEVI ACKERMAN.)
If there was ever a time for him to faint, it would be right then.
He is immensely grateful that he doesn’t.
Eren has never been fortunate enough to see Levi skate in person, and the sight of it now fills Eren’s entire chest with this quivering feeling, like he might start crying at any second.
It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. He doesn’t skate on the ice, he floats across it, every angle of his limbs from the tilt of his chin to the curve of his hands is elegant, and Eren can’t bring himself to do anything but stare.
I’ve dreamed about this moment since I was 13.
Levi comes to a stop and looks at him, and it’s only then that Eren realizes he said it out loud.
“Uh.” Shit. Shit. He glances towards the exit and wonders how long it would take him to get there.
He knows he’s faster than Levi. He could make it.
(Would Levi even chase him? There’s no reason for him to.)
But Eren hesitates, glancing back at Levi. He hasn’t moved, his entire body stock still, and even then, he still looks beautiful. People have been saying that Levi Ackerman was born for the ice, but he never realized just how true it was.
You’re never going to have this opportunity again.
Eren worries his bottom lip, shakes his head, and let’s out a small, disbelieving chuckle.
“Ich kann nicht glauben, dass ich das mache,” Eren mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. He steels himself, takes a deep breath, and says, “I was 13 the first time I watched you skate. At the Cup of China in 2010.” He tips his head to the side slightly. “Your free program inspired me to get into competitive skating.” Eren drags his skate on the ice slightly, focusing on the sharp, straight line more than the words tumbling stilted and awkwardly out of his mouth. “I saw you, and I thought, I want to do that. I want to skate like he does.”
It’s not a secret, but it’s still embarrassing to tell to this particular audience. His family knows, and his coaches, and his friends. He’d even confided in some interviews that the reason he’d gotten into skating was because of Levi. That Levi’s routines had inspired his own through the years. That he strived to have that natural grace on the ice, the haunting emotion in his routines, those elegantly lovely spins.
Levi might know that Eren won gold at Nationals last season. That doesn’t mean he read half-page spreads in German newspapers about him.
“So that’s what I have been working towards.” Eren scrunches his nose. “This is what I’ve been working towards.” He chances a glance at Levi, but his face is the same blank canvas, devoid of any telling emotion. Eren swallows. “Skating on an international level.” He breathes. “Skating on the same ice as you.”
There is no sound in the rink outside of Eren’s own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He waits, and he waits, and then closes his eyes and waits longer, before he hears the familiar sound of blades carving into the ice.
When he looks, Levi is easily skating past him, hands clasped behind his back, and the look he directs at Eren is completely and utterly indecipherable.
“Well.” There’s something in his tone that wasn’t there before, but Eren is at a loss to what exactly it is. “We’re both on the same ice.” Levi gestures easily with the wave of his wrist. “So skate.”
The giggle that bursts out of Eren is sudden and unbidden, and he slaps a hand over his mouth as if that might call it back. Levi raises a single eyebrow at him, but says nothing.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Let’s… Let’s skate.”
And they do. Not together or anything, just in the same general vicinity, and Eren finds it hard to concentrate when he can look over and find Levi gliding easily into a sit spin. He has no idea if Levi is practicing his short program, or if he’s just polishing certain techniques and moves on his roster in preparation. But it’s a marvel to watch, even if it is embarrassing when Levi happens to glance over and catch him staring.
“So it wasn’t a fluke.”
That time, when Eren glances over, Levi isn’t skating at all, but is watching Eren with a calculating expression. “Your footwork,” Levi elaborates when all Eren responds with is silence. “It’s good.”
Eren’s eyes widen in shock, and he can feel his neck heating up.
Levi Ackerman just told him his footwork was good.
(He might scream. Later. In the confines of his hotel room.)
“Do you know where I can meet a moose?” Eren blurts, and his eyes widen further.
Levi blinks at him, slowly. Once. Twice.
“What?”
“I…” Eren digs his skate nervously into the ice. “I wanted to meet a Canadian moose. And my friend back in Norway, he told me about this place here, Tom Hilton or something, and I also want to go there, and—”
“And you want to try maple syrup? Or some other incredibly stereotypical thing?” Levi’s eyebrows are high on his head, and he’s looking at Eren as if he doesn’t quite believe he’s standing there, saying these things.
“No.” Eren frowns. “I’ve had maple syrup before.”
And then, for the first time in his life, despite watching every interview that exists, every competition, every scrap of recorded footage, he hears Levi laugh. He thinks that maybe all of those interviews aren’t as reliable as he thought.
*
“Next, representing Germany, is first timer Eren Jaeger. He took the audience and judges by storm with his fast passed and riveting short program yesterday, surprisingly set to the early 2000s hit “Fat Lip” by Sum 41.”
“Not exactly the sort of music we’re used to hearing in figure skating, eh, Gunther?”
“That’s right, Eld. But it worked in Jaeger’s favor, earning him a personal best at 88.65.”
“Putting him just behind Italy’s Marco Bott by just 1.30 points, put keeping him in solid third.”
“This is Jaeger’s first time participating in the Grand Prix Series, despite being several years into his senior career. He’s said that it’s been a dream of his since he was just 13, and that he’s hoping to surprise international audiences with his routines and get Germany back into the international figure skating scene.”
“Well, if his free program is anything like his performance yesterday, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
“He’ll be skating to an acoustic cover of John Rzeznik’s “I’m Still Here,” continuing to showcase his theme for the season, coming of age.”
*
Eren sets personal bests in both his short program and his free skate, and he takes silver at Skate Canada. There is an overwhelming feeling in his chest as he stands on the podium, like an air balloon is filling his ribcage, and it’s uncomfortable and wonderful at the same time. Levi Ackerman is close enough to touch, one step and thirty points ahead of Eren.
But Eren is there, even though he played it safe and stuck to the double in his combination.
(He still touched down on the landing, and he knows he has a lot of work to do before the NHK Trophy in four weeks.)
It’s later, as the skaters and their coaches pause before tackling reporters and photographers, that he feels a sudden touch to his shoulder and turns to see Levi Ackerman there.
“Work on that jump,” he says, and Eren nods mutely. “I don’t want to see any of those fucking rookie mistakes at the final.”
His voice stills fails him, but that’s probably because his heart is where his vocal cords used to be.
Levi gives him a small shove and then walks away, hands in the pockets of his Team America jacket, and then Hanji Zöe is walking past and giving him a thumbs up.
“See you at the finals, Eren!”
A short laugh of disbelief echoes out of his throat, and Eren watches dumbly as two of the people he’s looked up to most turn the corner and disappear.
“You okay, Eren?” Hannes asks, an amused grin on his face, although Eren can see that he’s probably more shocked than Eren is.
He’s not quite sure how to answer the question, so he shrugs, smiles, and follows the same path to the lobby of the rink where the press is waiting.
If Levi Ackerman and Hanji Zöe expect him at the final, what kind of person would he be to let them down?