Chapter Text
The irony of the podium isn't lost on Keith. He can already envision tomorrow’s headlines at home. Silver takes Gold again or Golden Child pushed to Silver or some other lazy play on his and Shirogane’s surnames. The pressure going into the final has been palpable for weeks. After snatching his first world record during the short program at Rostelecom, the media has been practically frothing at the mouth for him to repeat the stunt again tonight. They will be just as ravenous with his failure to unseat the Champion. Keith knows deep down Moscow had been a fluke. The fact that his ultimate failure comes at the hands of a flubbed quad Lutz - his signature jump - only pushes salt into the wound.
The silver doesn't matter. It's the fact that this is their first competition together, his first chance to skate on the same ice as him and prove his worth, and he fumbles.
If standing on the podium is difficult, the post ceremony interviews are torture. Keith has never found himself comfortable with the publicity side of skating. With every success, another nosey reporter rises from the depths of whatever hell they come from and worms their way through his closely guarded private life. Keith still lacks the grace to deal with them despite Iverson’s strained and repetitive instruction. So when he's blindsided with a question about how his time in the foster system has impacted his path to seniors and the Grand Prix, he feels like he has been struck across the face. His mouth pops open and closed several times before the shock gives way to something far more ugly, twisting his lips into a snarl. But a voice to his immediate left cuts in before the growl can leave his throat.
“I think what you meant to say is congratulations on his first Grand Prix silver.”
Shirogane’s overly pleasant voice beside him is unexpected. Keith stops short, mortified that he takes it upon himself to diffuse the situation, eyes settling on his microphone when he speaks again.
“We’ll take the next question please...”
Quad Lutz, quad Lutz… He's done it a million times in practice, over and over until he lands it more times than not, but he's failed to stick it in its competition debut. Frustration pulses through his aching, bruised limbs. He had been a fool to attempt to work it in to his routine, mere moments after Shirogane’s flawless execution. His free had been breathtaking. A show of pure power and strength that was his own unique style. Keith had been transfixed for the entire routine, the sound of Iverson's nagging downed out to focus on the music and the sure movement of the Japanese skater’s body. Maybe some will claim he was intimidated when they publish their critical articles and scathing tweets, but he isn't searching for excuses. How can he look at Shirogane with bitterness when all he feels is wonder and awe.
Shirogane isn't exactly a typical figure skater. His build seems better suited to hockey rink brawls than for sit spins and step sequences. But Keith supposes that's why he was so drawn to him. Even in his junior debut, his jumps had been show-stopping, with height and speed that seemed inhuman for someone who was barely a teenager. For Keith, young and alone, bouncing from home to home in the system, he had been mesmerized from the moment he laid eyes on him in a stuttering, low quality stream on his new foster sister’s laptop. In a world where the future was fuzzy and uncertain, the art he created with his own body was a spark of inspiration and hope.
Keith is nine when he pulls on his first pair of skates, begging the elderly owner of the local rink for time on the ice after school. In exchange, he maintains the rentals after hours, wiping down blades, buffing scuffs in the leather and re-lacing broken ties. What he lacks in a head start, Keith makes up for in pure grit, teaching himself to move and spin the way Shirogane does in his competition videos.
In the spring, Keith graduates from waltz jumps to full rotations. At the Junior Worlds, Shirogane lands his first triple Lutz.
One evening, gingerly cleaning skates with a sore hip after falling down a dozen times in an attempt to jump doubles, the wrinkled rink manager tells Keith he will pay for his skating lessons.
The following February, his foster brother calls him downstairs for a phone call. A month later, he's on a flight to California, grant letter in hand, to train with some of the best skaters in the country as a promising young novice.
He watches Shirogane’s entire season on a tiny phone screen on his journey. After several replays, he still gasps on his fall at the US Championships, and feels his heart jump in tandem as he redeems himself by landing his first quad in competition - the Lutz, no less - at Worlds. His season results will be enough for him to compete at the senior level next year, if he wishes. Keith’s leg bounces anxiously. Shirogane’s training rink will soon be his training rink now too. He is going to get to meet his idol. He will get to train with his idol. He's going to be rinkmates with his idol.
Life has a weird sense of humour though.
“Shiro?”
There's a sympathetic sort of pity in the girl’s eyes as she takes in the scruffy novice in front of her.
“I'm afraid he moved back to Tokyo last week. He wanted to study and train in his home country before he makes his senior debut. Just between you and me, I think he felt he had outgrown Iverson a little too.”
An older boy with the same shock-white platinum hair as the kind girl calls out across the rink.
“Allura! We can't practice lifts if you insist on chatting with children all day.”
Allura rolls her eyes, but offers Keith a friendly smile.
“It’s really a shame I couldn't convince him to do pairs. He was my favourite here. He would have been a wonderful mentor for you too, I'm sure.”
Keith tries to convince himself he isn't heartbroken when he smiles and nods back.
At the NHK Trophy that year, Shirogane opens his debut senior short program on a thunderous quad Lutz with a raised right arm, the left planted on his hip. Keith gapes at the television screen for the entire remaining two minutes and twenty-one seconds of his routine while Allura whoops beside him and Lotor (begrudgingly) acknowledges the impressiveness of his opening act. From that moment, the jump becomes his signature and Shirogane announces himself to the world of figure skating as the one to watch. Not that Keith hasn't been watching for years already.
Turn and take a breath. Watch your path. Approach on the outside edge. Lean into the left and relax the knee. Face back and kick off with the right.
The Lutz isn’t a jump he will perform in tomorrow’s Exhibition Skate, but he needs to prove his ability to himself alone here now, for his own sake. The entry feels right, the motion smooth. Keith knows he has the speed to complete the rotations. But at the last point of contact between his toe pick and the ice, a loud groan of weighed down hinges cuts through the silence. His head snaps to the side out of instinct, catching a flash of blue and black once, twice… Wait, has he tucked his arms right? On the third turn, the angle seems to be tilted. His arms are definitely out of position.
The fourth rotation never comes, the ice rising to meet him in a crash that leaves his ears ringing. He hears a shout and a scramble by rinkside as an urgent thought tries to push through the fog that settles on impact. Absently, he realises he hasn't moved as the unmistakable sound of blades cutting through the ice draws closer to him.
Wait… aren't Team Japan’s jackets blue and black?...
“Keith!”
That voice…
With a wince, he rolls off of his hip and onto his back. The bright fluorescents overhead are shadowed by blurred face. He blinks away stars as a warm palm cups his face.
“Keith, can you hear me?”
Grey eyes come into focus, and before he can reconnect his brain to his tongue, he hears himself mumble, “you know my name?”
Keith suddenly wishes he had done a better job of trying to crack himself open on the ice. He can feel his cheeks starting to burn already.
“Uh, I mean, yeah… I can hear you, Shirogane.”
A hand comes to his back as he starts to sit up gingerly.
“I'm so sorry. That was terrible timing from me. I didn't mean to put you off of your jump like that."
Worry is written all over his unfairly handsome face as he checks him over frantically. He must have thrown on his skates with superhuman speed to have made it over to him so quickly. The Team Japan jacket has been discarded too, leaving him in his plain black training clothes.
“Are you injured? Should I call for help?”
Keith shakes his head insistently.
“No, no it's fine. The only real casualty is my dignity.”
Twice. He has failed Shirogane’s signature Lutz right in front of him, twice. In only a matter of hours. It stings.
He pulls himself to his feet before the older skater can offer his assistance, brushing the ice off of his training shirt. For years, he had pictured what his first conversation with Shirogane would be like. Ideally it would come after a perfect performance on the ice where Keith could play it cool and Shirogane would approach him with congratulations, impressed by his style and form. This however… This is far from ideal.
“Thanks,” he mumbles quickly, before shooting off.
It's only after half a lap that he realises he isn't alone, almost jumping out of his skin when he catches a glimpse of movement over his left shoulder. Shirogane smiles innocently, seamlessly keeping up with his hands folded behind his back.
“Sorry. It's just… you might have a concussion. I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving you to your own devices right after a fall like that.”
“Oh…”
Keith is sure his faint feeling has nothing to do with his fall. He snaps his eyes forward again.
“I guess that makes sense…”
He lapses quickly into awkward silence, hoping Shirogane will quickly lose interest, but the gold medallist seems content to glide a step or two behind him. Unfortunately he seems less content to let the silence reign.
“You're kind of insane, you know?”
Keith almost trips, spluttering indignantly out of instinct for his wounded ego.
“Excuse me?”
Shirogane laughs, but it isn't unkind.
“The Lutz, right at the end of your program.”
Keith's insides wither immediately.
“Yeah, well not all of us are the Champion of the ice, Shirogane,” he bites out.
“Shiro.”
Keith stares at him over his shoulder, confused.
“Call me Shiro,” he smiles.
“Champion is a little self-serving, don't you think?”
The tone is playful, but Keith thinks there might be a bittersweet twist in his lips as he speaks.
“And you’re Keith Kogane,” he continues, when Keith fails to remember the basics of social etiquette. It's framed as a fact, not a question. Shiro knows who he is, much to his disbelief.
“Can I call you Keith?”
As Shiro stands still, Keith realises he has glided to a halt.
“Uh, yeah sure. That's fine. I'm Keith.”
He can hear his subconscious screaming at him as he holds out his hand. He winces.
“Which… you already know,” he finishes lamely.
Shiro laughs again and Keith feels his bones turn to liquid. If he could bottle that sound, he would be the most dangerous man in the universe, he thinks absently. He's pretty sure he gives the most flaccid handshake in human history as Shiro accepts the gesture.
“It’s nice to meet you Keith. Properly.”
He gestures to the ice and Keith quickly takes the hint, pushing off to continue their lap. This time, Shiro stays shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Or… shoulder-to-chin. God, he's even taller up close like this.
“And for the record, I've never even attempted a quad Lutz in the second half of a free skate before. I guess that's why you’ve started breaking my records already.”
Oh…
“You've been training in Cali, right?”
Keith looks up to him again, taken aback. “Yeah. I… actually started there as a novice not long after you left.”
“I know,” Shiro smiles, without missing a beat.
By comparison, Keith feels himself skip twelve all at once.
“Allura told me a lot about you.”
“She-- she did?”
Oh God, has she told Shiro all about the scraggly orphan obsessed with him from the moment he stepped foot on the rink? Would Allura betray him like that? Well, probably not. Allura is like a big sister. She tutors him when he struggles with his workload and is always the first to step in to fend off pesky reporters that take an interest in him during the competition season. But she had already been close friends with Shiro long before they had become rinkmates. Had they already laughed about the no-name novice who watched the same competition videos over and over and aspired to join his idol on the ice?
“Mm,” Shiro affirms softly, cutting through his spiralling thoughts.
“She said you're a hard worker. And that sometimes you're the only one who keeps her sane when Lotor is… difficult.”
He turns a dimpled smile onto him, and suddenly Keith realises that perhaps his idolisation has been drifting out of its lane into strange new territory for a while, without his notice. But right now, it has a brick on the accelerator.
“Sounds like the media has you pegged wrong.”
“Are you referring to where I'm the bratty upstart who wants to tear the competition apart, or how I'm the depressed loner with the tragic backstory?” he asks, humorous tone falling a little flat.
“Both,” Shiro says easily with a shrug.
“I don't know what you've been through, but you're more than the sum of your past. And there's a difference between being a brat and wanting some privacy. People are more complicated than their media labels.”
Fuck. Okay, so he's nice too. Whoever had once said never to meet your heroes had it all wrong. Either that, or they had just had some shitty heroes.
“At least you got slapped with Champion though,” Keith points out. “That's not bad.”
Shiro gives a rueful smile, looking away. “The only thing the media loves more than a champion is seeing them fall.”
He falls silent then, contemplative, and Keith panics. He's horrific at small talk at the best of times, but he doesn't want to end the conversation there, failing to connect with Shiro after he just offered his own unexpectedly empathetic assessment of Keith.
“Allura said she tried to convince you to skate pairs when you first met.”
It's stupid, but it's the only thing he can think of as he scrambles for a foothold. He ducks his head and watches his feet with an unnatural interest for a competitive athlete when Shiro looks to him again in surprise.
“You're right.”
Keith risks a glance up, watching Shiro’s distant expression.
“When I first arrived at the rink, Iverson made no bones about the fact I wasn't… well, I didn't exactly look like a typical figure skater. Then or now.”
He grins directly at him, and Keith is certain it's only pure survival instinct that keeps him steady on his skates.
“Lotor and Allura were trialling pairs together at the time and they got off to a bit of a rocky start. Allura singled me out as someone who would probably be able do their programs lifts, so she… strong armed me into a couple of run-throughs.”
He shrugs as Keith tries to hide a grin. That definitely sounds like Allura. Perhaps she is a little more fond of Lotor these days, but she can still be quite headstrong and critical when it comes to her skating.
“It was fun, but I'm not exactly the twizzling type. I knew I wanted to do singles and I stuck to it. Allura was pretty disappointed. She forced Lotor to practice for weeks on end until he could get the same height on his throws.”
Yeah, I bet you could throw me halfway across this rink one-handed.
Shiro starts laughing and Keith realises with a visceral horror that he has voiced the thought out loud.
“We could give it a try if you like?”
As Keith contemplates whether he has been cursed by some unfair deity, Shiro doubles over beside him. Despite the expense to his pride, the sound warms him and he feels a pleasant buzz in his chest almost as if the sound travels through the ice and up through his skates to reverberate through him.
“I'm going to run through my e-ex,” the older skater says, showing mercy.
“You don't look like you're going to keel over any time soon, but if you start feeling a bit woozy, give me a yell, okay?”
Keith nods dumbly, watching him glide away. From such close proximity, he's even more impressive to look at it. Six and a half feet of well-sculpted muscle, with fluidity in his limbs that seems impossible for his size. All strictly from a professional view, of course. Although, the tight training tee and the low rise sweatpants…
Keith frowns, quickly dispelling the thought to throw himself into his own exhibition routine.
Shiro is first back to the boards, leaning on his forearms beside a towel and water bottle. Keith can feel a sheen of sweat cooling on his face and nape, and gratefully accepts the towel that is tossed to him.
“So why are you here so late?” Shiro asks after a swig from his water bottle.
Keith's brain uses maximum CPU to stop the loop of Shiro's Adams Apple bobbing as he swallows and switch his function to providing an answer that sounds vaguely human and not concussed.
“Uh… that is… My coach and I had a… disagreement I guess.”
Shiro nods too nonchalantly and Keith has to suppress a groan with a sudden understanding.
“But you already knew that, didn't you?”
Shiro has the decency to look apologetic, bringing his bottle to his lips with a sheepish expression.
“I may have heard one or two rumours.”
Keith does groan then. “Such as?”
“You punched Coach Iverson in the eye and quit the team.”
Mortification jolts Keith backward, knocking his water bottle off of the boards to pool on the ice.
“That's… only half true.”
A numb chill washes through his veins. He thought that conversation had been private. What else had been overheard? He can feel the tips of his ears starting to burn and for the millionth time today, he wishes the ice would just open up and swallow him whole.
“The part where you blinded Iverson or fired him?” Shiro asks lightly, and Keith realises he's teasing him. The heat rushes down his neck, and for a split second he swears that grey eyes flick down to follow the flush.
“I didn't punch Iverson,” he finally strangles out.
“I know. You're not half as unhinged as they make you out to be.”
“I wanted to though.”
He regrets the words the second they come out of his mouth. Shiro levels him with a curious look and straightens from where he leans over the boards.
“Why do you say that?”
Because he told me to get my head in the game. To stop focusing on you and stick to my own style. That the Lutz was a stupid and childish idea and could have derailed my entire program. That I'll never be the best if I can't stop idolising you.
Shiro seems to sense the internal struggle and takes pity, offering a smile.
“Sorry, that was insensitive. I shouldn't step into personal matters like that.”
Before Keith can choke out any kind of reassurance, Shiro stoops to pick up his now-empty bottle from where it has been thrown in his panic, setting it beside his and offering him a hand. Keith blinks stupidly at it.
“Come on, I told you I trialled pairs for Allura. Let's have a change of pace.”
Keith fails to respond, and so with a huff of a laugh, Shiro reaches forward to take it himself. Fingers wrap easily around his forearm and briefly Keith wonders if he in fact has died after that fall and that this is life throwing him one last favour in lieu of flashing his mediocre life before his eyes before he's welcomed through the gates of hell. When the gloved hand slips down into his, Keith decides he's going to make the most of death, and squeezes firmly. Shiro meets his eyes with surprise, but then smiles shyly. For a dead guy, Keith thinks, his heart is pounding pretty fucking hard.
Shiro draws them back into the middle of the rink, leading them into a circular momentum. Keith raises an eyebrow.
“Death spirals?”
Ironic.
“Up to it?” Shiro challenges.
“I take it you're spinning me?”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No.”
Shiro laughs. “Then yes, I'm spinning you.”
Keith must level him with a suspicious look, because he continues, “sink into it and arch your spine. Keep your arm straight. We'll go slow and I'll control the motion.”
Their first attempt has Keith kicking up chips of ice and Shiro quickly pulls him up against his chest, where he can feel the rumble of his laugh through his shirt.
“Trust me. I'm not going to fling you across the arena, so relax.”
“Easy for you to say,” Keith grumbles to Shiro's collarbone, trying not to focus on the lines pressing against him. “You're not eye-level with the surface of the ice.”
Shiro suddenly shifts to concern.
“If you're not comfortable…”
Keith cuts him off with a shake of his head.
“One more time.”
He lets Shiro spin him backwards this time - a cosmic spiral, he tells him - leaning into the motion and closing his eyes. The coolness of the ice close to his skin provides a stark contrast to the warm, sure hand in his. He doesn't catch Shiro’s sharp intake of breath when he coaxes him back up and his eyes open slowly again.
“Better?”
Shiro swallows, eyes flicking between his in a way that makes his stomach feel tight.
“Yeah,” he breathes after a beat. “Perfect.”
A tension Keith hadn't noticed in the other skater leaves him and he turns on his thousand watt smile again.
“I think you're ready for that throw now.”
Keith laughs, hitting him half-heartedly in the chest.
“Maybe another time.”
He glances to his watch.
“It's getting late. I should probably head back to the hotel.”
Shiro releases him gently, nodding.
“I might do one more run-through before I head back.”
Keith tries not to feel too disappointed.
“Sure. See you tomorrow.”
Keith can almost imagine Shiro's smile falters for a moment then.
“See you tomorrow,” he echoes.
He shoots him a parting smile, skating to the boards. But as he leans against the gate to shuck off his skates and retrieve his trainers, Shiro calls out to him. He looks up questioningly, seeing the other skater rushing toward him.
“Breakfast.”
Keith stares up at him in open confusion. “Huh?”
He watches as a pretty blush spreads over the bridge of Shiro’s nose.
“Join me. For breakfast. I thought maybe you'd like to escape Team USA for a while until things calm down a little. Besides, we need to figure out who is going to coach you for the rest of the season now Iverson has lost you.”
We?...
“Do you have your phone here?” Shiro asks earnestly.
He waits patiently for Keith to unfreeze himself to rummage through his training bag, the younger skater handing it over when Shiro holds out his hand.
“This is my number. Text me and I'll let you know the details.”
Keith’s voice comes out far more strained than he wants.
“Oh-- okay.”
He gathers up his bag, shoving his skates away. With an idiotic wave, he scrambles up the steps to the exit, fumbling with his phone one-handed.
Halfway to the hotel, he gets a text back.
Lobby at 7?
Keith smiles at the screen.
Make it 8 and you've got a deal.