coach!suguru x figureskater!reader | figure skating au | angst and fluff | tw: mentions of weight | in which suguru will do anything to make you perfect while you'll do anything to be out of the game | 7.8 k words
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teacher's pet - melanie martinez
The morning has frozen over completely with a thick, cold fog hanging in the air. Grass and trees are covered in a layer of iced moisture. Yet, when your alarm starts blaring at 04:20, you sit up in bed and rub the sleep from your eyes. Your bedroom feels so cold today.
Then, his text comes through like clockwork.
Eyes still heavy from exhaustion, your thumbs move slowly over the keyboard. You squint at the luminescence of your chat with him.
His message earns a soft sigh from you.
Your routine is the same everyday. The trek to the bathroom is not long, but this early in the morning it might as well be five blocks away. By now you have shed your clothes onto the cold tiles, feet bouncing lightly on the ceramic to keep yourself warm. Then you tow the scale out from beneath the sink and step on it with heavy feet.
Slightly lighter than the previous week. He wants you to be perfect, and so you will be. Between the strict diet he has put you on, and the exhaustion that hits you as soon as you retire from the rink for the day, and then continuously practicing the program he has choreographed with you, there is little room to do anything, let alone eat. Perhaps the only thing motivating you to keep living this way is the look on Suguru's face every single time you prove yourself worthy.
You have never skated better than now, under his guidance. You'll never forget the first time you saw Suguru; you almost dropped to your knees from how good looking he is.
Suguru Geto always seems poised and controlled no matter what he does. He keeps his composure even when he's frustrated at his band of skaters.
At first, you couldn't believe your ears when Nanami told you that he was retiring; in fact, you almost cried, but then he broke the news that his protégé, someone with the same rigour and discipline as him, Suguru Geto, would be taking over. Nanami got you gold in the last winter olympics; and now it's Suguru's turn to do the same.
Last time the Koreans almost one upped you. Almost. Suguru is adamant that this time you will put all your competitors in the ground.
Suguru was one of the most disciplined people Nanami could have passed the title to; often, you think, disciplined to the point of austerity.
Practice begins at five whether you have slept or not. If you under-rotate, he makes you repeat the jump until your legs tremble and your lungs burn white in your chest from lack of air. If your toe pick placement is off by even a centimetre, he sees it and corrects it. He has made Yuki cry a bunch of times.
He has made you skate until you cried. Yuki obviously cries almost every session yet she still turns up.
The other skaters always watch him with a careful kind of distance. Yuki admires him despite it all. People fear him, a little. They all do.
You have known for a long while that his reputation was not built on kindness.
But even then, you know the fractures in that discipline. You've seen it; it barely makes itself known but you can feel it in the moments he corrects your form, stepping closer than necessary. His hands settle at your waist to adjust your position, firm and precise, thumbs pressing just enough into the dip of your hips to guide the rotation. He always leans in slightly, breath warm against the shell of your ear as he murmurs instructions in that low, even voice. It never falters. Like that moment two months ago.
Goddamn Kento and his plans to spend more time with his family. Now, Suguru has you fantasizing about the same bullshit dreams.
What makes it even worse are the fan edits; you can't go on Tik Tok or Instagram, or the next fuck ass app without seeing some sort of edit of some choppy videos taken from the previous Olympics of the two of you, standing side by side before you go onto the ice. People actually ship you two, like he's not your coach but some star-crossed lover.
Of course, you indulge sometimes. You find yourself looking at them late at night. People in the comments always argue whether it would be ethical or not: He is your coach after all. But he isn't much older, only by eight years. Heck, Nanami was only eleven years older and nobody shipped you two.
Maybe there really is something.
But since that whole thing got blown up, Suguru has grown more distant at competitions. He actually keeps his distance now — like that makes a difference. Everyone on the internet still gushes about how cute of a couple the two of you would be and the worst part is that you see it.
You feel a closeness in the way his fingers linger a fraction too long before releasing you. The way his gaze traces the line of your leg when you extend into a spiral. His dark eyes are always assessing — but also absorbing you.
In the quiet hours of practice, often late at night when when the rink lights hum overhead and frost clings to the plexiglass barriers, he softens in ways no one else would ever notice. Outside, the parking lot is empty save for his car, and the sky is dark and glittering with stars. Other nights, it hails and you can hear the ice rattle the roof overhead like heavy rocks showering down from above.
His skates are on, circling you slowly as you hold a position, eyes narrowed in concentration, and then he steps forward to tilt your chin up with two fingers. You think he doesn't mean to whisper his words like that, but it never gets old and still has your core burning with this unbearable ache only he can cure.
“Don’t shrink,” he'll say, thumb brushing lightly beneath your jaw. “You’re better than everyone here so skate like it— like you want gold.”
There are moments, rare, fleeting, when you think he forgets himself. When approval flickers openly across his delicate face after you land something difficult.
By the time the kettle boils, hot steam disrupting your daydreams of him, you have to push those blasphemous thoughts aside. You want him. And after three years of skating under him, you're not even sure if it is want or something stronger now.
The rest of your morning routine consists of making a flask of coffee which far exceeds the recommended daily intake of caffeine, hoping for the best, and hastily fisting your pocket for your keys before the door is slamming shut behind you.
When you're sitting on the bench, hunched over to tie your skates, Yuki comes over with a scowl on her face. Her footsteps are heavy against the carpet, blade guards adorning the sliver of metal beneath her skates. There is a thin sheen of perspiration on her forehead.
"Can you believe it?" She huffs. "He's saying I need to eat less. Less? As if I'm fucking eating anything anyway."
That earns a scoff from you. With one final cinch, your laces are done and you rise from the bench, shifting your weight from side to side to test the bend; the leather feels stiffer today. Your toes feel pinched.
Yuki rolls her eyes, hands fumbling for the water bottle in her bag. "Bad mood. Always. Not with you though."
"Don't say that." You say in a breathy huff of amusement.
Yuki glances at you, eyebrow raised. "Sure.
"Well, wish me luck." You sigh.
"You skate too well to need that." She winks, backhanding your forearm gently. "Go get 'em, tiger."
Your laugh is light as you step onto the ice, metal sliding across the wetness. The rink smells of metal polish and cold, damp air today. While you're warming up near the edge, legs lunging and retracting, arms stretching high above you, Suguru eyes you for a moment.
He has tied his black hair into a bun, but the shine of his locks is enough to catch the overhead lights. His face is delicate and handsome. You eye him briefly but you tell yourself to lock in.
For a moment, the world narrows to the space between the two of you, but you don't know if he is watching you or not now. Your eyes are still heavy from waking up so early, so when they close and you effortlessly begin spinning on the ice to prepare yourself for whatever rigorous routine Suguru has planned today, you don’t even notice the way his dark eyes flick toward you every few seconds, the careful tilt of his head as he watches.
You’re focused, almost trance-like and not seeing anything beyond the rhythm of your own movements.
Unwillingly, he tears his eyes from you.
Suguru is gliding along the edge of the rink, posture perfect, arms folded across his chest. He's watching Satoru spin now, and when the white-haired man leaps gracefully across the freshly-smoothened ice, he nods his head in approval.
Early morning, everyone's tired.
The way your coach moves is too deliberate, too measured, and yet everything about him seems effortless.
Even when he starts murmuring something under his breath to Satoru, correcting posture, there’s an extra weight in his gaze that he can’t hide. The way he studies you while pretending not to is driving him insane; there is little balance between care and yearning that he can never admit aloud.
As the icy air glides over your goosebumped skin mid-spin, you feel his presence near you. The spin comes to halt on account of your pick driving into the hard ice.
"Sugu..." You murmur. "Good morning."
He stills at your nickname for him, but then it melts away as soon as it comes.
"Your shoulders,” he says softly, though his voice is commanding, breaking your reverie. “Tilt them back a little more.”
Before you can adjust, his hand is already at the small of your back, pressing gently. His touch is instructional, guiding your torso to open just enough without forcing it toward the ceiling. But still, you stiffen for a fraction of a second, like you always do, and yet he keeps his hand there as you rotate, the warmth of his touch a sharp contrast against the freezing, sterile air.
"Atta girl." He says in a fond exhale. "Yes, just like that."
Does he have to say it like that?
You feel your knees buckle but for fear of the embarrassment of falling, you let the momentum carry you and then the spin slows to a stop.
"You need to bring your arms a little higher." He says. "—should feel the line from your shoulders to your wrists.”
You blink, trying to steady your breathing, but the flush rising in your cheeks betrays you.
"Sorry, distracted." You say quietly.
His eyes narrow, and for a moment you think you might have ticked him off this early in the morning but the corner of his lips twitch. He never concedes to that smirk, opting to raise his chin a little.
"Need to have that fixed before we fly to Italy." He says simply.
The word lands heavy between you. A month. Thirty one days before the Winter Olympics. You've done it before so you know you can do it again. Somehow each time, it drains you the same.
"Good." He breathes. "I don't want to be disappointed."
You quirk an eyebrow at him, feeling all remnants of your blush slip away in the cold. "Don't think I've ever done that to you."
He pauses, holding your gaze. "No, you haven't but I don't want a first."
Suguru's words hang in the air. You push off before you can overthink it, blades carving a sharp crescent into the ice. Your body knows what to do even when your mind is swirling endlessly with thoughts of Suguru's hands on you, his lips ghosting your ear as he whispers straight up filth in that sultry voice of his. You can't help it; sometimes it feels as though this cat and mouse game has been going on for too long.
The world blurs into white and silver and the faint hum of the blindingly bright rink lights overhead. You focus on the aircon unit just above, keeping your gaze steady until you feel controlled enough to close your eyes mid-spin. Breathe in. Core tight.
You glide past him, pretending you don’t feel the intensity of his gaze tracking you.
Suguru joins Satoru now, the two engaged in light conversation. Your mind is elsewhere though, gazing on his sharp jaw. His dark lashes; that soft, almost delicate prettiness of his features that makes people underestimate him and how brutal he can be.
You pause at the opposite end of the rink, legs already burning from the early hour. A hand on your chest to steady your rapid breathing, you exhale deeply.
"Already?" Satoru yells from the other side of the rink.
Sensing the playfulness in his words, you throw him the finger and push off the ledge.
"None of that, come on." Suguru murmurs.
Beside him, Satoru smirks. "Protective, huh?"
The two men watch as you accelerate across the ice and then land three quads perfectly in succession.
"Think she'll retire soon?" Satoru asks, leaning his elbows on the ledge. "She's been competing for years now."
"She's nowhere near retirement age, 'Toru."
"Just saying— she looks more burnt out every time I see her." He quips. "Maybe time to let Yuki take over."
"She's not ready." Suguru says absentmindedly, eyes following your form as you repeat the jumps again.
Satoru smirks, sharp cerulean eyes flickering to watch Suguru's face more than your impressive landings. You do them with so much ease, it's like you were born to do this forever.
“Not ready,” Satoru repeats lightly. “Or you’re not ready?”
Suguru doesn’t answer immediately.
"Look at her." Satoru says. "She can land four quads perfectly— what's the shelf life of her ankles doing that repeatedly? The strain of competing like this?"
On the ice, you launch again. The first quad lands clean. The second comes and so does the third. A faint spray of ice trails behind you as you glide, chest heaving. The icy air hurts to breathe but you push on. You pretend you can’t feel their eyes on you — the weight of his gaze specifically. The fourth is fine. You won't crumble under the pressure of his gaze.
“She’s pushing too hard,” Satoru murmurs, quieter now.
“She knows her limits,” Suguru replies.
Your legs feel heavier than they should this early in the session.
Of course. You do not protest, and just reset, circling back on the ice until you have enough acceleration to pull your body upwards. Your chest feels tight.
Satoru hums under his breath. “You’re going to grind her into dust before Milan.”
Suguru’s jaw clenches slightly. “She’d tell me if it was too much— she's not stupid."
A moment passes where nothing is said. Suguru replays Satoru's words about grinding you down.
He doesn't want to admit that just two months ago, late at night, the two of you were sitting on the benches when everyone had gone home, you mentioned something along the lines of retirement to him.
Not that you wanted to; the thought of leaving the ice forever has never been something that's crossed your mind. You just wanted out of competing. Maybe something more with him. No lines could be crossed if he wasn't your coach anymore; you hate to admit the thought has occurred to you too often to be a fleeting feeling now.
"Maybe— I don't know... would be nice for me to hang the skates up for a little bit. Let Yuki take over." You said softly, colds hands rubbing at the sore spots in your feet. "I've been doing this since I was five."
Suguru didn't look in your direction then, because if he had let his eyes wander down, he would have seen the consequences of him pushing you so hard. It would have made his chest ache.
"I don't think Yuki's ready." Suguru said to you, gaze lingering on the empty rink. "She doesn't dominate like you do."
He kept his posture composed, shoulders squared, and a thick strand of black hair falling neatly across his delicate face.
You sighed. "I'm tired of competing."
"You're not replaceable." He clipped, voice hard. "I can't have you leaving like that."
For a moment, there was an awkward silence and he thought about saying his goodnights, but when he glanced at you and saw how dejected you looked, he kept his mouth shut.
In the background, faint music still played from the overhead speakers. The playlist you skate to filled the emptiness. It was comforting, being there with him. Like it was just the two of you in this world.
Suguru exhaled slowly through his nose and stood instead, offering you his hand in a gesture so simple it could be mistaken for nothing. It was almost nothing. You wished it was nothing.
“Come on,” he said. “Skate with me.”
It was. The ice had just been smoothened out after your session. The night was coming to an end, and in six hours you would have to wake up and repeat the same routine, be back in the rink for practice.
No Satoru teasing from the boards. Just the two of you and the echo of your blades.
You hesitated only a second before taking his hand. His fingers were warm despite the cold, and much larger than yours. Steady.
He helped you up from the bench and guided you gently toward the ice. Not in the commanding way he did during practice, but softer. Almost careful, as though you meant something to him. You stepped onto the rink together and with both hands firmly clasped in his, he was still facing you as the two of you glided on the wet ice.
The first twinkling of piano keys from Sabrina Carpenter's Don't Smile started playing as he pulled you in a little closer, lifting your hand into the empty air to twirl you on the spot.
It felt strangely intimate. Stripped of performance.
You weren't sure when you stopped seeing him as a coach, but then and there it felt like just two people, who have spent entirely too much time together, standing far too close under sterile white lights, breathing the same cold air.
His sharp jaw, shadowed, was softened by the fluorescent glow.
“You look different when you’re not performing,” he said quietly.
You swallowed. “Different how?”
Your heart was racing at what he said, but there was little time to recover when Suguru began guiding you gently into a turn, skating backward while you followed his lead. His other hand settled at your waist, firm, fingers beginning to splay over the curve. It was not instructional and definitely was not necessary. You could feel the hotness of his breath against your ear. His hands feel hot on your body.
The rink felt smaller with every rotation. Your free hand lifted unconsciously, resting on his and he could swear his heart stuttered. Somehow drifting even closer during a turn, blades slowing without either of you meaning to, you spun to face him.
Something unreadable flickered across his features.
His hand at your waist slid slightly higher, thumb pressing faintly against your side as if anchoring you there. Your fingers began curling into the fabric at his shoulder. The air was thinning by the second.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
When did he get so close?
You swallowed, tongue wetting your bottom lip out of instinct as the space between the two of you grew smaller and smaller. He was so close then, his nose barely skimmed yours. You could feel his grip tighten just under the curve of your breast; your breath hitched in your throat.
Soft singing spilled into the rink; the beat softened, a delicate run of notes filling the silence between heartbeats. You couldn't believe he had let his guard down like that. The disciplined coach. The architect of your career. The man who understood consequences better than desire.
His forehead rested against yours. A soft, almost broken exhale left him.
“We can’t,” he whispered. His restraint wasn’t born from uncertainty which was the cruellest part.
Suguru had never been unsure of what he felt for you. He had known for months by that point and he almost gave in. If he did, it would have been the end for self-restraint.
But his hand did not leave your waist. You pulled away first. It made him feel nauseous because if he had it his way, it wouldn't have been like this. When his hand dropped from your waist, you felt the cold hit your skin like never before; but still, as you skated toward the benches, the final notes of the song faded into a hollow echo.
The speakers clicked softly into silence again, leaving only the faint scrape of your blades and the sound of your own heartbeat.
You did not look back that night, or else you would have never been able to leave.
But you felt him watching you the entire way.
All of this comes back to him as you catch him staring blankly into space. He tears his gaze from the ghost of you standing inches from his mouth two months ago, focusing instead on the very real and present you now — pushing through exhaustion, forcing another quad when your legs are already trembling. You manage to land that one fine but when you look at Suguru, a hard expression is on his face.
“Again,” he calls. His voice is steady.
Grumbling to yourself, you launch yourself upwards. Mid-air, you feel the familiar ache of fatigue trembling in your thighs and calves. The pain is enough to make your landing uncertain, so when you hit the ice, knees bending to absorb the impact, your balance wavers. The landing hits like a jolt. You almost tip forward, but manage to stay upright at the last moment, though not without a shallow groan escaping you from the strain and the ache.
You glance at Suguru, and see his hard set of his jaw and the tight line of his shoulders. It tells you that he saw every wobble.
Beside him, Satoru shifts, eyes narrowing.
“Suguru, look at her,” he says, voice low, leaning closer to his coach. “She’s exhausted. She can barely land that last one clean. You’re going to push her too far before Milan.”
Sweat beads your hairline despite the freezing air. You swallow, forcing your legs to steady themselves, and push off again, shaking, but refusing to let the fatigue win.
Satoru watches you, silent now, smirk gone, and tension lining his handsome features as he shoots a fleeting glance with Suguru, who doesn’t acknowledge him.
“Satoru,” he says firmly without looking away from you. “Run your footwork.”
You see Satoru sigh dramatically from across the rink but nonetheless, the white haired skater obeys, blades scraping away. Satoru is an amazing skater, extremely graceful on the ice and his movements are fluid — but he is not you. Still, Suguru expects him to take at least silver in the men's.
Suguru's expression is unreadable but every part of him that wants to cross the invisible, thinning line, makes him grit his teeth. Your eyes meet his and you see him swallow hard, eyes locked to you.
For a while he had to convince himself that he loved the attention you brought, the success, the brand deals and the constant feeding into his reputation. But when you finally look away, choosing instead to hone your focus on your cantilevers, it takes every fibre of his being to tear his eyes away from your lithe form on the ice.
For the entire week, you convince yourself that Suguru's training isn't completely exhausting you, but when the days to Milan begin diminishing into nothing, you feel as though every muscle in your body is being ripped apart. Yuki pretends not to see the bags under your eyes, or the way you turn up to practice without a single word being spoken. You're on the ice more than you are at home. If you sleep, it isn't undisturbed and Suguru's texting you to arrive by 5 AM anyway.
Satoru is halfway done lacing his skates when you arrive at the rink. You aren't even that late; when your alarm rang this morning, admittedly you snoozed it more than once and you also aired Suguru's text. Something inside you is beginning to resent him for being so harsh on you this period but a big part of you is still clinging onto hope that you may finish whatever the hell that was two months ago.
"Someone slept in." Satoru drawls, gazing at your tired form through the white hair falling over his forehead. "Did you really stay until 1 AM yesterday?"
You huff, dropping your bag onto the bench with a loud and echoing THUD.
"Didn't have a choice." You mutter. "Couldn't land my fifth enough times."
"Your program only requires four?" Satoru asks, eyebrows creased. "Why's he making you do five?"
"If I can land five perfectly then I can do four."
The white haired skater next to you scoffs loudly, and rests a hand reassuringly on your forearm. "It's not sustainable. Your ankle will give out in the next year."
"Chance will be a fine th—"
Suguru's voice clips your words angrily. He looks dishevelled today, hair down, a few strands over his face, features twisted into annoyance and frustration and an outburst that is slowly clawing its way out of his throat.
Beside you, Satoru rises silently to his feet and he moves slowly to the entrance of the rink. He shoots you a wary look before leaving you alone with Geto.
"You what? You're slacking?" He laughs. "You were meant to be here five minutes ago."
"Sugu, I'm tired, okay?" You say, defeated. "Sue me if I wanted an extra few minutes in bed."
You run your hand through your hair, a soft sigh exhales from your lightly glossed lips.
"You think the Russians are getting extra minutes in? Or the Koreans?" He asks, bile lacing every word though he hasn't raised his voice yet. His dark eyes are sharp, piercing through the exhaustion, through you, as though he can see every fibre of weakness, every trembling muscle beneath the surface.
You straighten as best you can, dragging your tired body up from the bench, and meet his gaze. The bright white lights reflect like the sun on the slick ice; the rink is quiet this morning. Only the four of you, and three others occupy the space.
“No,” you murmur, voice hoarse from early mornings and long practices. “But it's fine, I've been acing my program.”
Suguru takes a step closer, his presence suddenly feeling oppressive and commanding. Your chest tightens as you realize just how close he is.
By now, Yuki has stopped moving on the ice to watch the two of you from a distance. Satoru is pretending to practice hydroblading, but the sound of metal slicing against wet ice is quiet, and you can feel their watchful eyes on you.
"Yeah?" Suguru starts quietly. "It's not good enough."
"Good enough?" You spurt, eyes wide in disbelief. "Who else is landing you five quads over and over again? I don't see you giving anyone else shit when they're twenty minutes late?"
Something snaps inside Suguru, and he runs a hand through his long black hair. He pinches the bridge of his thin nose, silent for a moment.
"You're slacking. You're getting complacent." He says simply. "Being tired isn't an excuse, Y/N."
“I’m not slacking!” You finally snap, frustration bleeding through the exhaustion. Across the rink, your words carry.
Everyone has stopped what they are doing to watch the two of you go at each other's necks so early in the morning.
His jaw clenches, and for a fraction of a second, you see him wrestling with the same truth you feel coursing through every ache in your body. He wants to protect you, but still, he is pushing you. He hates himself for it, and hates you for reminding him of just how human you are when you’re so incredibly skilled, so impossibly relentless on the ice. Yet, even now, you aren't sure why it still isn't enough for him. You think he wants to see you break.
Suguru’s hands tighten and relax at his sides, flexing constantly.
Then, you throw down the skates you don't even realise you're still holding. They clatter onto the floor. Suguru looks down, then back up at your face; something unreadable flickers across his eyes.
"What?" He asks calmly. "Having a tantrum now?"
"No," you exhale, almost in a laugh. "I'm retiring. I can't do this anymore."
Pushing past him, your shoulder knocks into his and he can feel his vision blurring as adrenaline courses through his body. His hand latches onto your arm at the last minute.
"That's it?" He grits. "You quit, just like that?"
"I can't keep doing this with you." You say.
"You're making a scene." Suguru warns quietly.
Your chest rises sharply as you inhale, catching the faint smell of the rink: metal, cold air, and him. The scent is faint but enough to make your stomach tighten. Yuki watches from the far side of the rink, hands pressed to her mouth, wide eyes betraying worry she’s trying not to show. Satoru has joined her side, uncertainty etched on his pale features.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
The rink feels too bright. Too exposed. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting off the ice so brightly it hurts to look at. Quite simply put, every skater within earshot has stopped pretending not to listen.
Suguru's grip on your arm never loosens. You can feel the pulse of his palm on your skin.
"What? You're worried about people listening? As if they don't already know how exhausted I am?"
“I’m worried about your career,” he snaps back, still quiet, still controlled. “About the work you’ve put in. About Milan.”
Suguru's thumb shifts slightly against your sleeve; you feel the heat from his skin and his proximity to you is making your stomach lurch. His eyes are filled with something stormy because somewhere along the line, you stopped being just his most promising skater; you became the first thing he looks for when he steps into the rink and the one thing that makes him want to get out of bed at the crack of dawn. Your performance really, is the only one that matters because you make his pulse spike every time without fail. You have for some time now.
He notices the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you are nervous, overthinking, anticipating criticism. The way your jaw sets before a difficult jump, and the deep breath you take before you step onto the rink. He sees the way your squeeze your hands exactly three times before your skates hit the rink as a good luck ritual.
Suguru's expression falters when your eyes soften, shoulders slumping in the tense air.
“You wanted this,” he says, voice still lowered to a hush.
"I wanted you... don't you see that? I don't care about the medals or whatever anymore." You say. "I wanna quit."
His expression betrays him completely. The look of anguish in his eyes dissipates, and is replaced by the very same look from two months ago when it was just the two of you alone on the ice. It's the same adoring, tender look that you can't get out of your head every night.
But he swallows the lump in his throat, and he lets your arm go. His restraint will always win over his feelings for you.
"I can't do this with you. Do you have any idea what people will say—"
Your angry scoff cuts through his words. "What others will say? Suguru, people are already talking!"
"And if I quit?" You ask, pushing your hair out of your face. "I'm tired of competing, I don't want to do it anymore."
"You cannot quit." He clips, an edge to his voice. "You're all I have."
He barks a laugh, and then without missing a beat:
"Well, I don't love Yuki."
His words make your falter for a mere second, but then you push it all to one side as frustration makes you see red.
You throw your hands up in defeat. "No, you love medals and reputation."
"You're fucking stupid if you really think that."
"No?" You laugh. "Then let me go— let me retire so I can get the fuck away from all of this."
"You will skate." Suguru says firmly. "You will get back on the ice until I say you can retire."
In that moment you realise he's never going to let you go. With a scorned huff, you shake your head, a forced smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Because if he doesn't let you retire, you'll make damn sure you can find a way to get out of it. If he is worried about reputation, there is nothing you can say that is reassuring enough for him to fold.
"Fine. I'll skate." You say. "But don't forget you're the one who forced me back onto the ice."
Suguru draws in a sharp breath, watching you retreat back to where you threw down your skates. When you begin lacing them, he can see your mouth moving, profanities and curses tumbling past your lips in breathless whispers but he forces himself to look away.
By the time the 2026 Winter Olympics comes around, every practice session has felt like being dropped into a pot of water you know is boiling yet you can't do anything about it.
Suguru hasn't folded under the intense pressure of your lingering gazes; the way your hand hovers over his arm just to draw back at the last second; or the way your eyes always find his in a crowded room. Every time you try to toe the line, he pulls away until he starts doing the same and then restraint finds him and he stops. But since the outburst on the rink, you feel as though resentment is beginning to wane over the part of your heart that wanted him so badly. The plane ride over was awkward, and under any other circumstance you would have gladly sat next to Suguru, yet you found yourself squashed in between Satoru who couldn't stop snoring, and Yuki who couldn't stop drooling on your shoulder.
Suguru barely talked to you. Barely looked at you once. Until you were struggling to take your suitcase off the carousel, and he silently reached over and took it off for you. His hand graced the small of your back and lingered there for a second before he tore his gaze away from you.
You tell yourself that none of it is important when you shed your white jacket, handing it to Yuki who is still wearing hers. She gives you a light smile, a reassuring stroke of your arm, and tells you you'll be great because you always are. Suguru's reputation doesn't come from nothing.
His skaters embody perfection.
Others shrink back in the presence of you. You have done gold before. There is no reason you can't do it again.
Today should be no different.
Suguru steps forward, his expression stoic. As you turn to face him, a strand of hair falls over your face and his hand reaches out but then he stops himself, suddenly aware of all the cameras and people surrounding you. The cameras are everywhere; federation officials standing just behind; other coaches standing around; athletes stretching within earshot.
The air smells like the inside of a freezer and hairspray.
He swallows and you see his Adam's apple bob in his throat. The slender hand withdraws and falls to your elbow.
"You'll be great out there." He says quietly, and it is the same tone he has used for years. His words are measured, low, and carefully stripped of anything that could be mistaken for affection. Yet, his hold on your arm says otherwise. Under his heavy gaze, you realise he is standing closer than he needs to. Everything unspoken, your confession which has been unaddressed, hangs overhead like a raincloud.
His hand on you feels like a silent apology.
He is standing close enough that you can see the strain gathered at the corners of his eyes, the fatigue he wears like a second skin. His thumb is pressing faintly into the translucent fabric of your costume as though he is grounding you to the earth.
Suguru clears his throat softly. “Stick to the program,” he adds, more firmly now. “Don’t overthink the fifth. You don’t need it— but it will be a new record.”
Yet you want nothing but to destroy it all. Not the fallout; you don't wish for that at all. But you want all of the control and restraint to crumble — you want the chaos of letting it all go.
You wonder, briefly, what would happen if you reached for him now. If you let your hand settle on his chest. If you said his name the way you do when the rink is empty and the lights are off.
The program isn't deviated from. When the music starts playing, you skate like you have always done.
Music fills the rink, singing bouncing off the walls as your spin slows to a halt. In the brief moment the beat of the music slows, you pause as per the program. His choreography.
As agreed — as it always has been.
Your hands are fluttering above your head, fluid and feeling the icy coldness of the rink's air. It hums with expectation.
Suguru nods. A simple action as if to say "you can do it again".
But amongst all of this, something settles. The rink goes still. The last thread snaps and your decision lands — soft and irreversible.
Three have already been landed and everyone went insane at the perfect landing. Gold is secured. Four have been done with ease.
You remind yourself the fifth is only for show. Just like all of this anguish and torment, it's completely unnecessary. And to that end, you accept it, letting the heavy feeling settle in your chest as your skates begin to accelerate backwards, every muscle in your calves pushing you on as you glide across the ice.
Your blades carve clean crescents into the ice as you build speed, muscle memory carrying you through choreography your body has known for years. Three have been done but none of it matters because you have accepted that while you're in the game, it's always going to feel like this. Clinical. Clean. Repetitive.
Every movement being breathless and precise — but completely unfulfilling because all you want is him.
Your eyes lift and there he is, unmoving.
Behind the rink barrier. Black coat, hands braced against the boards. Suguru is watching you the way he always does; he's not proud, not smiling. Controlled. Expectant. His dark eyes burn with something else like adoration and hope.
You see the future now: More medals, more seasons, more hotel rooms with separate floors and rules that flood bitterness into your mouth. More practices with him withdrawing his touch.
You see him stepping back every time it matters.
The edge of your skates deepen in the watery ice.
You vault up and the world melts away, because mid-air, time fractures. A slow exhale that feels like all of your worries, that ache in your chest, the uncontrollable fire in your loins every time Suguru approves of you, seems to flitter out in one breath. You have done this jump a thousand times.
Your body knows exactly where to pull in, when to spot the ice, how to snap the rotation clean.
It’s subtle. Almost invisible, but Suguru sees it.
He has has watched you jump this axel hundreds of times: In empty rinks at dawn; in late-night practices when the Zamboni hum was the only witness; in competition warm-ups where your breath fogged sharp in the icy air. He knows the exact angle of your shoulder when you pull in. The snap of your hips. The ruthless precision of your air position. And he knows when you are hesitating.
Something in your spin is a fraction of a second just too late but incredibly intentional.
A hesitation that doesn’t belong and has never been there before. Hesitation that feels like the moment he almost kissed you late at night on the rink, and you pulled away from him.
His fingers, gloved in black knit, tighten against the rink barrier. He feels the woven softness pull taut against his whitening knuckles.
He's mouthing it to himself. Beside him, Yuki tears her fearful eyes away from you for just one second to watch him. He's whispering it to himself as though you would fix your mistake mid-air if he pleads it any more.
She sees it now, the fear and the worry. She doesn't understand why your spin slowed for a mere millisecond, but when she sees Suguru's face paling at your error, the realisation of what you are doing fills her with dread.
His sharp jaw sets. You have time. He calculates it instinctively, like he has always done. Velocity, axis, remaining rotation. You can still save it and you always do save it. Usually.
The words leave him before he knows he has even spoken.
The edge of your blade meets the ice at the wrong angle. He sees the torque ripple up your toned leg before the sound reaches him. Your expression twists into something ugly that he has never seen before and a deafening crack, cutting abruptly through the music is swallowed by the entire arena’s sharp inhale.
You fold completely onto the ice and the crowd gasps in horror. And for a split second, the world goes silent in Suguru's head.
He’s seen it before: Not on the ice, but in quieter moments. When he stepped back too far; when he told you to focus on your career; when he pretended the line between you was solid steel instead of something he was carving thinner and thinner everyday.
You don't get up. He thinks that if he wills it hard enough, you will.
Yuki's hands have flown over her mouth as she cries your name, eyes brimming with fearful tears. For a second nobody moves.
Then, Suguru finds himself vaulting around the barrier with a violence that shatters every boundary he has ever tried to enforce. Coaches aren’t supposed to rush the ice like this. They aren’t supposed to look unprofessional. But something snaps inside him and he doesn’t care anymore.
Your name tears out of his throat before he can control it.
The music completely fills the rink in the silent horror of onlookers.
Crimson blooms beautifully onto white. You are crying out now in breathy sobs, hand is shaking above your ankle, bent now, with the bone protruding through skin in a jagged edge. The agony steals all air from your lungs as the adrenaline and shock in your veins tells you to try and get up, but it hurts too much and you can't.
Yuki is still frozen behind the barriers, looking at your crumpled figure in the middle of the rink.
Suguru drops to his knees so hard on the wet ice that the impact shoots up through his bones, but he doesn’t feel it. Not when his eyes fall to your ankle. For a moment, his mind refuses to process what he’s actually seeing. Your skate is twisted at an angle that makes his stomach lurch, bile rising to his throat, and the boot is no longer aligned with the clean, disciplined line of your leg that he has spent years of his life perfecting.
The leather has split slightly near the laces from the force of it. Your joint is misshapen and swelling before his eyes. Folded over on the ice, you breathe in ragged and sharp inhales. You barely feel Suguru's body press against your back as he hushes you, cradling your head into his chest.
Suguru has seen injuries before. Sprains. Stress fractures. Torn ligaments. He has sat beside his athletes with ice packs and steady voices, mapping out recovery timelines with clinical calm. He knows the body. He knows damage. Hell, he remembers when Yuki fell on her tailbone and the bruise there lasted for almost two months. She couldn't sit; and he remembers giving her a day off to recover before forcing her back onto the ice again. She was fine and she managed to make it work.
But this is something else entirely. Suguru thinks this is catastrophic; the careful, disciplined mask he has worn for years shatters in a mere heartbeat. His jaw tightens so hard it aches. He exhales, but it doesn’t steady him and his hands are trembling now.
“What did you do?” he whispers, and you can hear the softness in his voice; there is no accusation, no hard edge — his tone sounds like pure devastation. Because he knows. The realization settles heavy and suffocating because this isn’t a season-ending injury. This is career ending.
He knows the exact rotation where you sacrificed the landing; the exact correction you withheld, the moment you didn't pull in enough. He can replay it frame by frame in his mind with merciless clarity. Suguru understands with the same sickening certainty that the line he tried to protect has not just been crossed but now obliterated in the span of seconds.
He never thought you would do something like this.
"I'm sorry, Sugu." You whisper against his chest.
He can feel himself come undone at your words. In fact he can barely hear himself think. The crowd is whispering now, people recording the whole thing with their phones, and no doubt this will make national and international news tomorrow.
His hand tightens at the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair as if he can anchor you to him by sheer force. His forehead presses briefly to your temple, and he closes his eyes for a moment at the sight of your ankle. His breathing feels hot against your matted hair.
But then, footsteps skid across ice.
Hands reach for you and Suguru doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t relinquish his hold of you but when you're being pried away, you feel him let go slightly.
"Sugu please don't go." You plead with watery eyes, hands fisting the collar of his coat. His hand shifts to smooth over your hair, damp with sweat and coming undone now.
He forces himself to look again as they cut away the ruined boot. The sound of scissors slicing through leather is obscene. When the skate comes free, the full extent of the damage is revealed and he feels his stomach lurch again. When the crowd of medics surrounding the two of you try to ease him back, his hand shoots out and grabs one medic’s wrist.
“Careful,” he snaps, voice low. “Support the heel. She's in pain."
You whimper when they shift you onto the stretcher. The sound rips straight through him but his hand never leaves yours, thumb stroking over your knuckles in frantic, repetitive motions; you're not sure if he is grounding you, or attempting feebly to ground himself. The sequins and dark blue jewels on the translucent fabric of your costume glitter under the bright white lights.
When they begin to wheel you away, one of the officials places a firm hand on his shoulder.
He shrugs the hand off like it burns.
There is something in his expression, something cold and unyielding. The official steps aside, lips pressed in a flat line.
"There isn't anything you can do at this point." The man says. "Her ankle is done."
The words ring like a knell in his ear. Suguru runs a hand over his face, a frustrated yell ripping from the depths of his throat as his mind replays the moment you fell on the ice.
He doesn't walk beside the stretcher as they rush you down the corridor. Before he can get another glance at you, the team of medics tending to you have disappeared around the hallway into a sterile, white room.
Your tears are still wet against the sleek fabric of Suguru's coat, your apology echoing in his head.
He doesn't even care now that protocols are dissolving one by one. Reputation. Yours and his. Your career is over within a fraction of a second because you willed it to.
The line he tried so hard to keep behind has completely melted away.
♡ link to my main [archived] masterlist
♡ looking for more JJK? here you go
sorry if this was dog bunsss
wait credit to @bbfawns for planting the figure skater trope in my head many many moons ago omg
