Archive of Our Own

There was a time when Rin’s world wasn’t football.

Before goals, before Blue Lock, before every breath he took became tied to beating his brother—Rin had been introduced to something else. Something gentler. Something that didn’t demand his entire soul just to stay afloat.

Skating.

It wasn’t the first sport he loved, but it was the first that ever felt like his. The rink had a kind of comfort football could never offer him. Yes, it had its own pressure, its own discipline and bruises, but there was a freedom in it—quiet, solitary, almost magical. The ice didn’t need teamwork or a shared vision. It needed only him, his balance, his rhythm, his breath skating across the cold air.

On the ice, Rin could exist alone, entirely unlinked to anyone else’s expectations.

Maybe that’s why he loved it. Maybe that’s why he sometimes missed it.

It used to be a simple hobby, something soft and warm in his childhood only because their mother loved the rink. She would laugh brightly while helping him tie his skates, her voice echoing through the cold air, and Rin, small, silent Rin would nod and follow her onto the ice.

Sae rarely came with them. 

He was always busy. Always practicing. Always prioritizing football over anything else. Even then, Rin knew that his brother’s world revolved around something he had no place in yet.

Back then, skating filled that empty space. 

Back then, the ice felt like his own small universe—one untouched by Sae, untouched by rivalry, untouched by the crushing weight of dreams that weren’t fully his yet.

Back then… Rin could just be Rin.

The box had been tucked away for years, buried in the farthest corner of his wardrobe, and when Rin finally pulled it out, a thin layer of dust rose like a ghost of the past. Inside lay his ice skates, untouched and forgotten, their worn leather stiff but still familiar, their blades cold and sharp, gleaming faintly in the dim light of his room. The sight of them stirred something deep inside him, a pull he hadn’t felt in years, and for the first time in a long while, Rin felt quiet—not the quiet that followed a match or a training session, but the kind that settled heavy, insistent, and reflective.

He had just returned from the match against the U-20 team, a game that had thrust Blue Lock into the public eye and left the world suddenly watching every move of his life. 

The noise, the cameras, the constant pressure of football, all had driven him forward with relentless intensity. Yet here he was, staring at something that had nothing to do with goals, strategies, or victories, and it brought a strange, aching nostalgia with it. 

The skates reminded him of a time when his world had been different, quieter, freer. 

When he could exist in a place where he belonged to himself and himself alone.

Rin’s mind wandered to that winter long ago, the snowy night that had changed everything, the tragedy that had split him from Sae in a way he had never fully recovered from. That incident had pushed him too far into anger, into determination so absolute that there was no room for anything else. Football became his all-consuming world, the only place where he could pour every ounce of emotion, every fragment of his ambition. 

And skating, once a solace, once a place that had felt like home, was abandoned, cast aside as a memory too fragile to hold onto amidst the rage that had consumed him. The idea that something he had loved could become a burden to football cut sharply, and for the first time in years, Rin allowed himself to feel the ache of that loss. He loved skating. He loved football too, but the love was different, colder, harder; one was freedom, the other a weapon.

He remembered the simplicity of those earlier days. 

Skating had not been about medals or recognition; it had been about moving, about gliding across the ice with nothing but the rhythm of his own body and the faint echo of his mother’s laughter. She had loved bringing him along to the rink, tying his laces with careful hands, cheering him on when he tried new spins or jumped awkwardly from the boards. And Rin had been content to exist there, in that space of his own making, without expectation, without comparison, without the weight of someone else’s gaze.

Sometimes, in the dark moments of the years that followed, Rin had wondered what might have been if he had chosen differently. 

Not at the moment Sae told him to quit, but years earlier, when he was six, when he had instinctively made a shot and looked to Sae for approval, only to have his brother beckon him back to the football field. Perhaps if he had rejected football then, embraced the ice instead of ambition, things might have been different. Perhaps he would have trained seriously, competed, even reached stages beyond the small rink in Kamakura. He remembered the praise, the fleeting attention of professionals, the encouragement of strangers who saw potential in a child who moved like water on ice. Yet he had refused, clinging to football because it was shared with Sae, because it felt like a dream he was not allowed to abandon.

Now, at sixteen, Rin understood that the love he had for skating had never truly died. 

Football, on the other hand, had changed. 

It was no longer joy or excitement, no longer a shared dream, but something else entirely—an engine of determination, revenge, and obsession. He no longer played for love; he played because he could not stop, because he could not forgive, because giving up was never an option. The ice had been a part of him, a pure and untainted fragment of who he had been, and he realized now how much he had lost when he abandoned it.

The memory of the selection competition for Under-15 skaters returned unbidden. 

He had trained tirelessly, practicing between football sessions, refining music and choreography, consulting a coach, planning every detail of his costume and routine. It was supposed to be his first real test, the day after Sae had promised to return. But Sae had not cared. Sae had not watched. Sae had dismissed him as useless and unnecessary. The fury and hurt that followed were too much for Rin, and he had thrown away everything for football, letting resentment and anger dictate his choices instead of desire or passion.

Now, holding the skates again, Rin felt a pang of regret for the first time in a long while. He could have competed, could have won, could have represented Kamakura City. 

He had been ready, capable, and willing, but he had let anger outweigh his own potential. 

Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his feet, a strange sense of purpose settling over him. He changed into warm, flexible clothes, packed the skates and gloves carefully, and stepped into the cool evening air. The streets were quiet, the city bathed in the soft light of streetlamps, and the faint chill bit at his cheeks as he walked toward the small rink near his town.

For the first time in years, Rin was not running toward football, not chasing Sae, not driven by obligation or revenge. He was moving toward something that had always belonged to him. 

Something he had abandoned too soon. 

The ice awaited, silent and expectant, and Rin, feeling the weight of years and choices, realized that he was going back not for victory, not for recognition, but for himself.

The rink looked smaller than he remembered.  

Almost intimate, cradled by the familiar curve of the walls and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The air smelled faintly of ice and metal, of rubber mats and the faint, lingering perfume of skaters who had come before him. Even though it was the same place, it felt different now—like stepping into a memory long paused, waiting for him to resume.

Rin paused at the edge of the ice, skates in hand, and exhaled slowly. 

His fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the laces, double-tying them with the care of someone handling something precious. The leather creaked softly, protesting after times of disuse, and the blades caught the faint light of the rink, glinting like thin silver threads. A knot of nerves and anticipation settled in his stomach, a strange, almost thrilling sensation he hadn’t felt since he was a child.

He stepped onto the ice cautiously, the blades making that familiar, whispering scrape against the smooth surface. The sound resonated differently now, echoing in the emptiness of the rink, carrying with it years of absence and neglect. 

Rin’s knees bent instinctively, arms extending slightly for balance, and for a moment, he simply stood there, letting the ice bear his weight, letting the cold bite of it remind him that he was alive, here, present.

The first glide was tentative. 

His movements were careful, almost cautious, as though he feared the ice would reject him for abandoning it so long ago. 

He remembered how it felt to push off, how his body used to flow effortlessly over the surface, how the rhythm of skating had always been an extension of himself. He tried again, this time with more confidence, and felt a flicker of something he had forgotten: joy. Pure, unadulterated joy, not tied to goals, competition, or Sae, but something that belonged entirely to him.

He allowed himself to bend, to push, to turn, small movements at first, testing muscle memory that had lain dormant. Each step released tension he didn’t realize he had carried, and with every glide, the past and present seemed to reconcile in small, imperceptible ways. 

The rink became more than a place; it became a current, a rhythm he could sink into, letting the ice guide him where he wanted to go.

For a moment, Rin closed his eyes, feeling the wind against his face, the ice humming beneath his blades, the silence around him broken only by the soft echo of metal on frozen water. Memories of his mother’s laughter, of the first jump he attempted alone, of the lost competition, all swirled together in a bittersweet dance. 

And yet, he felt no anger now, only the raw, pulsing reminder that this part of him had never truly disappeared.

He lifted slightly into a small spin, unsteady but determined, and felt the subtle exhilaration of motion, the thrill of defying gravity even for a moment. The ice was patient with him, forgiving the rust in his technique, welcoming him back in the way only something he had loved unconditionally could. Rin’s heart beat faster, not with competition, not with revenge, but with the simple, profound pleasure of being where he belonged.

And for the first time in years, Rin smiled, not at football, not at victory, not at Sae but at the ice, at himself, at the small, unbroken fragment of childhood he had finally reclaimed.

The first tentative glides gave way to longer, smoother strides. 

Rin felt the ice beneath him like an old friend rediscovering him, each push and turn flowing more naturally than the moment before. His body remembered what his mind had long forgotten. The hesitation faded, replaced by instinct—the same instinct that had once carried him effortlessly across the rink as a child.

He lifted into a small jump, a move he hadn’t attempted in years. 

For an instant, he wobbled, but the reflexes that had been honed in hours of practice took over. He landed, the blade cutting a clean line into the ice, and felt the thrill surge through him. That rush—the quiet, electric satisfaction of mastery—reminded him why he had loved skating in the first place.

Encouraged, Rin pushed further. He began incorporating spins, steps, and turns, each movement flowing into the next. His choreography—the one he had prepared for the Under-15 competition that rose from memory like it had been waiting all these years for this moment. Without music, without judges, without an audience, he moved as he had imagined, each motion precise yet fluid, elegant yet powerful. The combination of jumps and spins, the rhythm of his feet across the ice, the sweep of his arms—it all came back naturally, as if the years of absence had never existed.

Rin allowed himself to release everything he had held inside for so long: the frustration, the anger, the regret, the longing. Each movement on the ice became a word in a conversation with himself, each glide a sentence in a story he had left unfinished. He poured all of it into the choreography, his heart syncing with the imagined music he had chosen years ago, letting the ice bear witness to a performance he had been denied.

And then, finally, he finished. 

He landed his last spin, blades cutting a delicate arc into the ice before coming to a complete, silent stop. The rink was still. The air was still. Even the faint hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to pause, giving him a moment that felt entirely his own.

Rin stood there, chest rising and falling, sweat dampening his hair, a quiet smile spreading across his face. He let himself savor it—the pure, untainted joy of accomplishment, of reclaiming a piece of himself that had been buried under years of ambition, rivalry, and resentment. There was no audience. No applause. No one to witness it but the cold walls and the ice that had held him in its arms as a child. 

And yet, somehow, it felt like everything he had lost, everything he had missed, had come back to him in that single moment.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, letting the quiet pride fill him. He had done it. He had skated the routine he had once dreamed of performing in competition, and though no one had been there to see it, he had finally finished it—for himself, for the love of the ice, and for the part of Rin that had never truly disappeared.

For the first time in years, he felt whole.

“Seems like that talent never ceases, you kiddo.”

The voice cut through the quiet of the rink, deep and familiar, carrying that dry amusement that had always been part of it. Rin froze mid-breath, the chill of the ice beneath him suddenly sharper, the echoes of his own movements fading into the background.

He tilted his head slowly, finally meeting the source of the voice. 

A deadpan expression greeted him, a mix of amusement, boredom, and something else—something softer, almost like pride. His old coach, the one he had abandoned along with the skates, the one whose number he had blocked and avoided, was standing there, arms crossed casually, leaning slightly against the wall of the rink.

“Coach…” Rin’s voice was quiet, tentative, almost surprised to hear the words leave his own mouth.

“Guess you decided to come back,” the coach said, stepping a little closer, his eyes scanning Rin with the same sharp attention he always had. “What, you had enough of football already?” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge of seriousness underneath it, the unspoken acknowledgment that he knew exactly why Rin had returned.

Rin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t answer immediately. 

Instead, he let his gaze wander over the ice, over the marks left by his skates, over the fleeting rhythm of movement that had carried him back here. There was too much to explain in words, too much buried under years of pride, anger, and regret.

Finally, he exhaled, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Something like that,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.

The coach tilted his head, unimpressed but not unkind. “Heh. Well, good to see you didn’t completely forget how to move,” he said, voice softening just slightly. “Though, I’ll bet you’ve got some rust to shake off.”

Rin glanced down at his skates and then back up, meeting his coach’s gaze directly for the first time in years. “Maybe… maybe I just needed to remember why I loved it in the first place.”

The coach’s eyes softened imperceptibly, the faintest hint of a smile appearing on his lips. “Not a bad reason to come back, kiddo. Not bad at all.”

And then the coach leaned against the rink wall, arms crossed, watching Rin’s careful glides as though he had all the time in the world, though Rin knew better. The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the faint scrape of blades against ice, until finally the coach spoke, voice cutting through the quiet with a mix of authority and amusement.

“There’s a competition in two weeks,” he said, eyes locking onto Rin. It was the last day of his break. “You’re going to enter it.”

Rin froze mid-stride, blades biting into the ice as if the announcement had somehow weighed down the entire rink. “I—what?”

The coach straightened, taking a step closer. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not asking. I’m telling. You’re going to compete. Doesn’t matter if you win or lose. Doesn’t matter if you screw up, fall flat, or impress nobody. You just… go out there and skate. That’s it.”

Rin’s mind whirled. Two weeks. A competition. He hadn’t performed in God knows how long. And yet… the moves, the choreography, the instincts—they all felt alive in him. Almost as if they’d been lying dormant, waiting for this exact moment.

“Why?” Rin asked quietly, more to himself than to the coach.

“Because,” the coach said, his voice firm, “I take pride in my skaters. In the ones I know have what it takes. You’ve got skill, kiddo, and talent like yours doesn’t just vanish. I want to see it shine. You’ve got two weeks to decide if you’re serious. After the competition, you can think about the future—whether skating’s worth it, whether you want to keep going, or if you’ll walk away again. I don’t care. I just want you to give me—give yourself—that performance.”

Rin’s chest tightened. The words weren’t a request. 

They weren’t soft encouragement. They were a challenge, a command, a demand wrapped in pride and expectation. The familiar thrill of competition, the thrill he had buried under anger and football, stirred within him.

He looked down at his skates, then back at the ice beneath him, remembering every glide, every spin, every jump. The choreography, once a routine for judges and music, now flowed naturally through him. He still had it. He still remembered. And two weeks—it was just in time. Just enough to reclaim this part of himself before he had to go back to Blue Lock, before football swallowed him again, before Sae, before everything else.

He exhaled, feeling the knot of hesitation and doubt ease slightly. The decision was his. The ice would wait. The competition would wait.

“All right,” he said finally, voice low but steady. “I’ll do it.”

The coach’s deadpan expression softened into the faintest smile, almost imperceptible, but enough. “Good. That’s all I needed to hear. Two weeks, kiddo. Don’t waste them.”

Rin nodded, feeling the rare mix of tension and anticipation settle over him. He wasn’t just skating for himself anymore, but for the chance to finish what he had started, to show that the part of him that loved the ice hadn’t disappeared, no matter how much football or life had tried to bury it.

And with that thought, Rin pushed off once more, blades slicing cleanly through the ice, ready to chase a future that, for the first time in years, felt entirely his own.

Rin stepped into the house, expecting quiet. 

The familiar scent of home was muted without their parents around—their absence leaving the rooms feeling oddly hollow. He had just returned from the rink, carrying the familiar weight of his skates, still sticky with the cold of the ice, when he noticed him.

Sae. 

Standing in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets, expression flat and unreadable. Rin froze for a moment, the surprise tightening his chest. “Sae?”

His brother’s eyes flicked up briefly, just enough to acknowledge him before returning to some invisible point in the room. “I’m here,” he said simply.

Rin’s brow furrowed. 

He had expected their parents to be home—he had known he would be alone but not Sae. Not when Sae was supposed to have flown back to Spain hours ago. “Why… why are you here? You were supposed to leave already.”

Sae shrugged, his face betraying nothing. “I don’t even want to be here. If it wasn’t for Mom asking me to look after you, I wouldn’t be.”

Rin’s chest tightened, anger sparking like a live wire. 

He felt it ripple through him, hot and sharp, because he had been managing on his own for the past weeks, doing everything in the quiet of his own schedule, only to have Sae suddenly appear, as though he had the right to loom over him. “Seriously? You show up when you don’t even want to be here? That’s… that’s so typical.”

Sae didn’t flinch, didn’t defend himself. He just gave a small, dry hum, the faintest edge of amusement—or maybe impatience—in it. “Yeah, well, while you were going through this rebellious teenage phase or whatever. Mom asked me to make sure you didn’t burn the house down while she was gone.”

Rin’s jaw tightened, fists clenching at his sides. He hated how casual Sae made it sound, as if everything from the past, the fights, the distance, the years he had spent chasing his own path to escape Sae’s shadow could be summed up as a phase. “A phase?” he said, voice low but sharp. “Is that all I am to you? Some rebellious kid you have to babysit?”

Sae’s eyes met his, cool and steady. “I said I’ll look after you. That’s all you need to know.”

Rin’s anger didn’t ease. If anything, it sharpened. 

He didn’t want an explanation. 

He didn’t want words that would make this easier. He wanted… something else, though he couldn’t admit what. Instead, he turned slightly, hiding the weight of his thoughts behind a neutral expression, careful not to let Sae see that he had gone skating, careful not to let him see how much of himself he had reclaimed in the past few hours.

Sae noticed the shift in Rin’s stance, the subtle guarding, but he said nothing. He had learned long ago that Rin would reveal things when he wanted to, and not a second before. For now, he just remained there, quiet, watching, the faintest shadow of curiosity in his gaze.

The tension between them filled the room, silent but heavy. And in that silence, Rin realized something he hadn’t in years. Sae wasn’t here to compete, to belittle, or to control him. He was just… present. 

Annoying. Oblivious. And somehow, in the strangest way, reassuring.

Rin huffed softly, brushing off some of the frustration he refused to let show. “Don’t expect me to entertain you just because you’re home,” he muttered, more to himself than Sae, though the words carried the sting of truth.

Sae smirked faintly, a small, unshakable reminder of the brother Rin had been chasing all these years. “I’m not here for fun. Consider it… a favor.”

Rin turned away, hiding the fire in his chest behind measured steps toward his room, but beneath it all, a quiet part of him burned hotter—anger, irritation, and… something he wasn’t ready to name.

A week had passed, and Rin was beginning to notice something strange—he hadn’t touched a football in seven days. 

Seven long, uninterrupted days. 

For someone like him, it was almost unheard of. 

Yet here he was, waking, eating, and moving almost exclusively for the ice. For the first time in years, he hadn’t felt the compulsive pull of football dominating every moment of his life. It was the first time he had allowed himself to exist solely for something that belonged to him, that demanded nothing of him except presence.

Most days, he spent every waking hour at the rink. 

He arrived early, lacing his skates carefully, feeling the leather bite slightly, the blades cold against the concrete floor as he stretched and warmed up. The ice itself welcomed him, familiar and forgiving, holding him as he moved through spins, jumps, and footwork that had once been routine. Almost instinctively, the choreography he had prepared for the competition began to take shape again, flowing smoothly through muscle memory that hadn’t faltered even after years of neglect.

Rin found himself taking the long way home each evening, lingering at the rink, avoiding the house. 

Sae was there, yes, in the same building, and yet he had never once asked about what he had been doing out everyday...

The thought stung more than Rin wanted to admit. 

A dull ache settled in his chest, whispering that Sae really didn’t care, that his brother’s presence—or absence—was inconsequential to him. It was a subtle, bitter realization, one that Rin shoved aside, following the advice his coach had given him. Focus on yourself, on the ice, on the performance, and let everything else wait.

And so he skated. Over and over, sometimes until his legs ached and his lungs burned. 

Every glide, every turn, every jump became a conversation with himself—a reclaiming of a part of his life he had thought lost. He perfected the routine, pushed himself to remember timing, flow, and balance, and allowed himself, finally, to feel the pure joy of skating without expectation, without judgment.

Evenings bled into nights as Rin continued in this rhythm, carving paths across the ice with determination and quiet obsession. It was exhausting, and yet… freeing. Football, the game that had consumed him, that had been the reason he had abandoned this part of himself, felt distant, almost foreign. He hadn’t thought about it once—not really. He had no need to. The ice, the blades, the quiet hum of the rink, and the routines he alone could execute filled him completely.

And though a part of him ached at the reminder of Sae’s indifference, Rin let it fade into the background, like static in a room. 

For now, there was only the ice, only the movement, only the reclamation of a self he hadn’t touched in years—and, perhaps, the first time he felt that sense of ownership over his life that had eluded him since he first stepped into football.

And soon the day of the competition almost arrived. 

Tomorrow, the rink would be filled with spectators, judges, and the nervous hum of anticipation, and Rin held in his hand a small ticket—a single invitation meant for a guest, given to players so someone they cared about could watch for free. For a long moment, he stared at it, thinking immediately of the only person who mattered: his brother. He had been advised to return home early, to rest, to get a good night’s sleep before the big day. He had even taken the time to try on his skating outfit, carefully checking every seam and fold. The costume was a little snug, stretched by the muscles he had gained during his time at Blue Lock, but it still fit. Just. He let out a quiet sigh, satisfied that it wouldn’t hinder his performance.

And yet, as he put the outfit back in its box and looked again at the ticket, a knot formed in his chest. 

Should he ask Sae to come? He wanted his brother there, yes—but he didn’t want Sae to see skating as some kind of weakness, some other focus that distracted him from football. That thought hurt more than he expected. Football had always been a source of judgment, of comparison between them, but skating… skating was his passion. And the idea that Sae might look at it, and by extension at him, and dismiss it, or even dislike it, was a sting Rin wasn’t sure he could endure.

Still, another part of him—the younger, quieter part he rarely let show longed for someone important to witness this side of him. 

Someone who mattered. 

Someone who might understand, or at least see him, cheer him on, even in silence. 

Mom wasn’t home to be that person, and Rin wasn’t sure anyone else could take her place. He could pretend it didn’t matter, that Sae didn’t need to know this part of him—but that would be lying to himself.

This was his chance. Now or never.

He set the ticket on his desk, fingers lingering on it, and then finally resolved himself. Taking a deep breath, he made his way downstairs, ready to call his brother. The words were on the tip of his tongue, the invitation ready to be spoken.

And then he heard the front door opened.

Rin stopped mid-step. Sae. Just as he had feared, just as he had hoped. With luggage in hand, coat slung over one shoulder, he was clearly about to leave the house.

The timing was uncanny, almost cruel, and Rin’s chest tightened—not with anger, but with a strange mix of panic and anticipation. Should he speak now? Should he let the ticket and the moment pass? His heart beat faster as he watched Sae, suitcase rattling slightly as he shifted his weight, unaware of the inner storm raging in Rin.

Rin opened his mouth, the ticket clutched in his hand, ready to call out, to invite his brother. 

But before a single word left him, Sae barely glanced his way, voice flat and casual. “I’m heading to a friend’s house. You’ve hardly been home anyway,” he said, shrugging as if it explained everything. “Or… acquaintances, I guess.”

Rin froze, the words hitting harder than any insult could. Acquaintances. Friend's house?

That’s what he was, just someone Sae barely noticed, barely cared about. He felt his throat tighten, his courage draining away, and suddenly the thought of asking Sae to come to the rink seemed impossible. His chest ached as he realized—maybe his brother really didn’t care. Sae hoisted his suitcase and gave a faint, casual nod, and just like that, he was gone. The front door clicked shut behind him, leaving Rin in the quiet emptiness of the house.

For a long moment, Rin just stood there, frozen, holding the ticket like it had become impossibly heavy. Then, almost without thinking, he pressed it to his chest, hiding it behind his body, as if shielding it from the world. His fingers tightened around it until the edges dug into his palm. 

Slowly, he brought it up, pressing it against his face, and blinked hard.

The edges of his vision began to blur. He could feel the weight of disappointment, the sting of rejection, and the quiet ache of loneliness all pressing down at once. This part of him—the part that had returned to skating not for glory, not for anyone but himself suddenly felt unbearably fragile.

And yet, even in that haze of hurt, Rin couldn’t bring himself to toss the ticket aside. 

He held it close, a reminder of what he loved, what he had reclaimed, and the chance, however fleeting, that someone might see him for who he truly was. His vision blurred further, and the tears threatened to spill, but he didn’t let them. Not yet.

He simply leaned against the wall, silent, letting the quiet of the empty house press in around him, feeling small, hurt, and yet… unbroken.

The morning light filtered softly through the blinds, casting long, pale stripes across Rin’s room. 

He sat on the edge of his bed, skates at his feet, hands steady as he laced them up with careful precision. Trying it to make sure everything was alright. Today wasn’t about anything else—no football, no comparisons, no Sae, no past regrets. Today was just him and the ice, and the quiet, singular rhythm of the routine he had worked toward for the past week.

By the time he reached the rink, the air was crisp, carrying the familiar metallic scent of ice that always seemed to sharpen his focus. The coach was already there, waiting near the edge of the rink, clipboard tucked under one arm, eyes following Rin’s movements with that mix of boredom and pride that had always unnerved him.

“You look… ready,” the coach said casually, but Rin could hear the faint edge of seriousness behind the words. “I don’t need to remind you why you’re here, right?”

Rin shook his head. “I know,” he said simply, sliding onto the ice and letting the cold bite of the blades settle beneath him. Each glide felt precise, familiar, and reassuring, like an old friend who knew exactly how to hold him steady.

For Rin, there was no room for doubt this morning. 

The world outside the rink—the endless pressure, the comparisons, the expectations—had been pushed away, stuffed into a corner of his mind where it could not reach him. Nothing existed except the ice beneath his blades, the sound of metal whispering across the surface, and the choreography etched into his muscle memory.

The coach watched in silence as Rin began his warm-ups with stretches, simple glides, jumps to wake his legs, spins to remind his body of balance. Each motion flowed seamlessly into the next, almost meditative, almost like breathing. The ice seemed to hum under him, responding to every shift of weight, every tilt of his arms, every flex of his ankles.

“Good,” the coach murmured, just loud enough for Rin to hear. “Keep that focus. Forget everything else. It’s all you and the ice today.”

Rin nodded, the words echoing perfectly in his mind. 

He let himself glide further, pushing off the edge, building momentum, letting the rhythm of the ice guide him. The choreography he had practiced in secret over the past week began to unfold naturally, each jump and spin executed with precision and grace. He felt no fear of falling, no doubt, no hesitation. The ice carried him, and he moved like he had never left, like every hour, every glide, every solitary moment had been leading to this one.

For Rin, the morning was a bubble of pure focus, a space where nothing existed but movement, balance, and flow. The competition could wait. The audience, the judges, the world—they didn’t exist yet. There was only him, the ice, and the reclaiming of a part of himself that had been waiting for years to be set free.

By mid-morning, the rink had begun to stir with life. 

Coaches hustled about, adjusting equipment and calling out last-minute reminders. Other competitors arrived, carrying their own skates, costumes, and nervous energy, exchanging hurried greetings and tentative smiles. Rin spotted a few faces he recognized from magazines and TV coverage of local competitions—skaters whose names were already whispered with admiration in skating circles but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on them.

He stayed near the edge of the rink, quietly stretching, lacing his skates again to make sure they were snug, feeling the familiar pull and bite of the leather. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead mixed with the scrape of blades, the clatter of skate guards on concrete, and the murmur of conversation. 

The rink was alive, chaotic, buzzing with anticipation.

A few spectators had begun trickling in, some families with cameras, some casual onlookers curious about the event. Rin caught glimpses of them out of the corner of his eye where heads turning, phones raised, whispers of recognition here and there but he deliberately avoided looking directly at the crowd. 

There was no one there for him. Not really. 

No one to cheer him, no one to notice the hours he had poured into this moment.

He could feel a low hum of nerves building in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t fight it. Instead, he focused on the ice, on the edges of the rink, on the faint scratches and lines that reminded him of every hour he had spent alone, every glide, every jump, every spin. The competition wasn’t about impressing anyone, not yet. It was about reclaiming the part of himself that had been buried, the part that loved skating not for medals or applause, but because it was his.

Other skaters glanced toward him occasionally, some offering polite nods or curt smiles, but Rin didn’t return them. 

His eyes stayed fixed on the ice, his arms and legs already moving in subtle stretches, feeling the rhythm of the blades and the potential of motion. In the midst of the growing crowd, the chatter, and the flurry of last-minute preparations, Rin found a strange kind of calm. The world could wait. The audience could wait. The judgment, the comparisons, the distractions—they could all wait.

For now, there was only the ice, the empty spaces, and the quiet promise of movement that had always been his own.

A few skaters had gone before him—three, maybe four—each performing their routines with a blend of grace and precision that drew quiet gasps and applause from the audience. Rin watched from the sidelines, eyes following their spins, jumps, and steps, feeling a flicker of awe at the skill on display. The performances reminded him of everything he loved about skating, the elegance, the control, the freedom of movement and yet, for the first time in a long while, they also stirred a hint of nervousness in his chest.

He took a moment to steady himself, inhaling slowly and exhaling with measured precision, feeling the rhythm of his own heartbeat as he tried to quiet the nerves. The ice would wait for him, he told himself. 

The routine was still there, still his.

When his name was called, Rin retreated to the back room for a final moment of preparation. Standing before the mirror, he studied his reflection, the familiar curve of his jaw, the sharpness of his eyes, the steady line of his shoulders. And beneath the surface, the pulse of memories, the echo of years spent gliding across the ice.

He remembered why he had loved skating so much—long before football had consumed his life, before the world demanded comparisons and victories. The freedom of the ice, the way it allowed him to move without restraint, without expectation, without anyone else dictating his pace or rhythm. The rink had always been his place, the one space where he could be entirely himself. 

If football had never touched his life, if the world hadn’t forced him to abandon it, this—the ice—was exactly where he belonged.

A deep breath, a slow exhale. He pushed the thought aside, letting it settle in his chest, a quiet fuel for the moment to come.

And then the call came. The voice of the announcer echoed through the rink:

“Here comes the next representative from Kamakura, Itoshi Rin! With music called ‘Prayer,’ ready to skate the rink. Let us all welcome Itoshi Rin!”

Rin stepped forward, heart steadying even as adrenaline surged, and planted his skates on the ice. The blades bit into the surface with a familiar, comforting hiss. He inhaled deeply, feeling the cold of the ice beneath him, the expanse of the rink stretching out, ready to carry him.

This was his moment. His ice. His routine. And nothing else existed but the glide beneath his feet.

The music began, a slow, haunting melody that filled the rink and wrapped around Rin like a familiar embrace. The first notes echoed through him, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the sound remind him of why he had created this piece. Prayer—the name he had given it years ago—had once been a reflection of a boy’s loneliness, of longing for connection, for someone lost.

Now, as he stepped onto the ice, Rin realized the meaning had deepened. The boy was still there, still longing—but now, he was fully, undeniably alone. Not just missing someone, but standing in a world that had often demanded he push everything else away. And yet, that loneliness, that ache, became fuel. Every note of the music ignited something within him, and Rin let it pour out, letting his body speak where words could not.

He pushed off, gliding forward with controlled precision, arms stretching wide, letting the ice carry him. A series of quick, flowing steps followed, the blades scraping delicately yet sharply across the surface as he shifted weight with smooth, practiced motions. The turns came naturally, each spin a spiral of light and shadow that seemed to lift him off the rink for a heartbeat.

Then came the jumps.

A graceful leap, toes pointing perfectly, body arching midair, landing cleanly on the ice, absorbing the shock with a soft, precise bend of his knees. Another jump, higher this time, wings of momentum carrying him forward, spinning, twisting, until he landed with quiet strength, letting the ice tremble beneath him for a fraction of a second.

Rin’s choreography flowed seamlessly—steps that told a story of longing, spins that expressed quiet despair, leaps that carried both hope and defiance. He dipped low to the ice, fingertips brushing the surface as if reaching for something just out of reach, then rose again, arms outstretched as the music swelled, each movement sharp, precise, and yet fluid, like water poured from a trembling hand.

He let his emotions guide him. The ache of solitude, the bittersweet memory of connections lost, the quiet yearning for someone to witness him—all of it channeled into his movements. Every jump, every spin, every stretch of his body became an echo of his heart, a silent prayer cast across the ice.

By the final notes, Rin spun one last time, landing with controlled stillness at center ice. His chest heaved lightly, sweat glinting at the nape of his neck, blades resting firmly on the ice. For a heartbeat, the rink was still, the music gone, leaving only the echo of what he had poured into the performance.

And Rin, finally, allowed himself a small, quiet smile—soft, private, and real. 

He had danced his story, bared his solitude, and reclaimed a part of himself that no one, not even the past, could take away.

The applause rang around the rink, polite and appreciative, but Rin didn’t see anyone he recognized. No familiar face, no cheer, no one to witness the part of him he had poured onto the ice. He lowered his gaze, letting his skates carry him slowly toward the edge, muscles humming with a fatigue unlike anything football had ever demanded.

It had been minutes of pure intensity, a different kind of exhaustion—one that reached deeper, that left the chest and shoulders heavy, that made every movement feel earned. 

He felt satisfied, yes, a flicker of happiness that came from doing something purely for himself. But beneath it, a subtle, lingering sadness tugged at him, a quiet reminder that even in triumph, there were pieces of him that had been left unseen.

Rin sank onto the bench at the edge of the rink, skates still on, letting the minutes pass in a haze. Other competitors finished their rounds, applause and cheers blending into a dull, constant background hum. Faces, blades, music, and movement blurred together. 

For a moment, time felt suspended, disconnected, almost dreamlike.

A light touch on his shoulder made him start slightly. He looked up to see his coach, expression calm but unreadable, standing there. Rin blinked, realizing how long he had been lost in his thoughts. The competition was over. The music, the ice, the tension—all had passed, leaving only the quiet aftermath and the faint ache in his muscles.

“It’s time,” the coach said softly, nodding toward the center of the rink. “Winner announcement.”

Rin swallowed, feeling a twinge of nerves spike up again, but it was different now. This wasn’t about impressing anyone. This wasn’t about football, about Sae, or about the past. This was the moment he had prepared for, the culmination of every glide, every spin, every private hour spent alone on the ice.

He took a deep breath, rising from the bench, letting the weight of exhaustion and emotion settle over him. The rink stretched ahead, the crowd murmuring, the judges poised to speak, and for the first time in a long while, Rin felt ready to meet whatever came next—whatever recognition or silence awaited him.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the rink, carrying the weight of suspense like a tangible thread. Rin’s heart thudded in his chest, each beat counting down the moments before the winners would be revealed. He tried not to think too much, tried to stay grounded, but it was impossible to ignore the subtle hum of nerves running beneath his calm exterior.

“Third place…” the announcer started, and Rin barely registered the name. 

Then, finally, “Second place, representing Kamakura, Itoshi Rin!”

Rin froze. For a moment, he couldn’t believe it. Second place? Him? He had expected perhaps a decent showing, maybe a middling score—but second place? His chest tightened, a rush of disbelief mingling with quiet pride. Part of him still thought his performance had been lukewarm, overshadowed by skaters with years of experience and countless hours of practice. And yet… here he was.

He stepped forward, almost mechanically, to the podium. 

The medal was placed around his neck, cold against his skin, shining with a small, perfect weight. His first skating medal. Rin held it there for a brief second, letting the reality settle in, letting the quiet satisfaction wash over him.

Then the announcer called the first-place winner. Rin’s gaze lifted, and he saw him, a boy shorter than him, long blond hair catching the rink lights, standing with an easy, almost smug confidence. Rin didn’t remember the winner’s performance—he hadn’t been watching but the boy’s eyes found his, and the smirk made Rin tense slightly.

“Guess I’m impressed with your performance,” the blond said, voice clear and teasing. “Don’t even think about winning against me!”

Rin frowned, unimpressed, letting the brief annoyance pass over him. He didn’t know this guy, didn’t need to. But before he could respond, the boy added with a mischievous grin, “I am Yuri Plisetsky! Remember that!”

“Yeah, sure…” Rin muttered, trying to keep his focus. 

The sudden flash of cameras and harsh glare of lights made his head throb slightly as photographers swarmed to capture the moment. Interviews followed, questions he tried to answer politely, dodging anything too personal until finally, the chaos subsided, and Rin could breathe again. He stepped away from the podium, brushing off the lingering dazzle from the camera lights, and found his coach waiting, calm and composed as always. The corners of the coach’s mouth twitched slightly, as if pleased but unwilling to show it outright.

“You did well,” the coach said simply, placing a hand on Rin’s shoulder. “Second place. Not bad for someone who’s been out of the game for a while.”

Rin nodded, letting a quiet smile settle on his lips. 

Despite the exhaustion, the headaches from the cameras, and the lingering ache in his muscles, he felt a small spark of pride and contentment. For the first time in years, he had skated not for football, not for anyone else, but for himself and that alone had earned him this moment.

As Rin adjusted the medal around his neck, the coach’s voice cut through the quiet bustle of the rink. “You know,” he said, eyes glinting with mischief, “that costume… a little too tight for someone who’s been building all those muscles at Blue Lock. You’re practically bursting out of it.”

Rin’s cheeks flushed crimson, and he looked down at the snug outfit, realizing just how much it clung to his body. “I… I didn’t notice,” he muttered, his usual composure faltering under the teasing.

The coach chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it. Just thought I’d mention it. Now go rest up. I’ve got some things to take care of. I’ll be back soon.”

Before Rin could respond, the coach had already turned and strode toward the exit, leaving Rin standing alone in the midst of the dwindling crowd. A few fans lingered near the barriers, snapping pictures or chatting excitedly, and families clustered around their own children, celebrating performances and offering congratulations. Rin, medal still warm against his chest, felt an almost instinctive urge to disappear—to escape the noise and the attention.

He started toward the exit, steps quick, heart still pulsing from the morning’s adrenaline. The rink, once a sanctuary of focus and movement, now felt crowded and distant, the applause and chatter echoing oddly in his ears.

“Rin?”

The voice came from behind him, soft but unmistakable. Rin froze, chest tightening, and slowly turned around.

And there he was.

“Isagi…?” Rin’s voice barely rose above a whisper, disbelief threading it.

The boy standing a few feet away was unmistakable, familiar from countless matches and rivalries back in Blue Lock. His presence here, in this quiet moment after Rin’s personal triumph, felt almost surreal. Rin’s grip tightened slightly on his medal, the reality of the day colliding with the sudden, unexpected appearance of someone from the world he had been trying to leave behind, if only for a few hours.

Rin blinked, taking in the scene in front of him. 

He had only expected Isagi, and yet more familiar figures appeared behind him, the forward with his sharp eyes, the boy with the bobcut, the red-haired one, even the ever-clingy duo, Reo and Nagi. To say Rin was embarrassed would be a severe understatement.

A part of him seethed at their presence here. His private world—the ice, the choreography, the emotions he had poured into skating was supposed to be his alone. And now, the people from his football life, the world he had fought and clawed through, were seeing this side of him. Something in him burned with irritation, a mix of shame and defiance.

Still, Rin straightened, shoulders squared, and forced his expression into something close to indifferent. Cold. Nonchalant. He would not let them see how much this affected him.

“Wow, it’s really you!” the boy with the bobcut said, his voice brimming with surprise and excitement. “Rin! Wow!” Bachira jumped slightly, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he looked him up and down, eyes wide, taking in every detail of Rin’s tight costume and the medal around his neck.

Rin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He kept his gaze neutral, voice clipped. “Isagi… Bobcut,” he acknowledged, letting the words drop without inflection. He didn’t want to give them any ammunition to tease him further, no matter how much they were clearly enjoying the scene. Yet, even as he acted composed, the faint burn on his cheeks betrayed him, a silent confession that yes, this part of him—this vulnerable, human side he had always kept hidden—was now fully exposed to the world he had long considered separate from the ice.

Rin exhaled slowly, trying to steady the faint warmth still lingering on his cheeks. “Why… are you guys here?” he asked, voice carefully measured, trying to keep the edge of irritation out.

Reo was the first to jump in, practically bouncing with excitement. “Got a free ticket! My dad sponsored part of the event, so we just… tagged along. Easy!” Bachira grinned, leaning casually against the railing. “Yeah, couldn’t miss seeing Rin in action. Didn’t think you’d have other… interests.” While, Chigiri, quieter than the others, gave a small laugh. “I didn’t expect the football maniac to have hobbies outside the field either. Isagi’s… well, still processing it, I think.”

Rin’s eyes flicked to the blue-haired striker standing slightly apart from the group. His expression sharpened, and his voice took on its usual clipped tone. 

“What?”

Isagi’s grin was wide, competitive fire flickering in his eyes, but there was something else, a subtle earnestness beneath it. “I always knew you were great… but even in another sport? Rin, you’re amazing. But… I hope you don’t forget about football, right?”

Rin let out a short scoff, brushing his hair back as if dismissing the thought entirely. “Like I’d quit. I still haven’t been number one yet. And you… going to be there to see it.”

Isagi’s grin widened, the competitive edge sharpening as if stoked by the very challenge. “Bring it!” he said, eyes flashing with the same intensity Rin remembered from every match they had faced together. Even here, in this unexpected world of ice and choreography, the fire of the pitch was unmistakable.

Rin felt the faintest tug of a smile, though he tried to hide it, letting the familiar rush of rivalry settle over him. Despite everything—the embarrassment, the exposure, the medal around his neck—he felt a spark of excitement, a reminder that football and its challenges were never far from him, even on the ice.

After a few more words, laughter, and light teasing, the group began to gather their things. It was time to leave. “Well, we should go,” Reo said, still grinning. “Congrats again, Rin.”

“Yeah, really,” Bachira added, giving him a casual pat on the shoulder.

Rin simply nodded, tilting his head down slightly to hide the faint flush creeping across his cheeks. He turned his gaze toward the ice, focusing on the smooth surface as if it could erase his embarrassment. Isagi, however, didn’t miss it. The faint curve of Rin’s lips, the subtle warmth of his blush—it was all there. But he said nothing, smiling quietly to himself, letting Rin maintain the illusion of composure.

As the noise of goodbyes faded and the rink grew quieter, a calm settled over Rin. He exhaled, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. Just as he thought he might finally have a moment to himself, another voice rang out, playful and familiar.

“Yo~ Rinrin~”

Rin’s head snapped up slightly, eyes narrowing in recognition and mild exasperation. Whoever it was, the timing was perfect… or perhaps perfectly annoying. If Rin had felt only embarrassed a moment ago, that feeling had just exploded into something far more volatile.

“Why the—what the—” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening. His hands curled into fists, every muscle in his body coiling as if ready to strike. The mere presence of that pest Shidou Ryuusei was enough to make him see red.

He took a small step forward, instincts screaming for a kick, a shove, anything to get rid of the interloper. But just as his leg lifted, ready to launch, his eyes shifted—and everything froze. Another pair of eyes, sharp and teal like his own, met his. Calm, assessing, and utterly unimpressed, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of judgment.

Sae.

Rin’s anger faltered, twisting into a mixture of disbelief and irritation. He couldn’t believe Sae was here—here of all places, witnessing this absurd encounter with Shidou. The fact that his brother, who had been supposed to be away, was standing there as if it were the most normal thing in the world sent a new surge of frustration through him.

And Shidou… Shidou didn’t even flinch. If anything, the smirk on his face widened, clearly relishing the tension, as if he knew exactly what he had just done.

Rin’s fists unclenched slightly, but the simmering fire in his chest remained. Murderous, frustrated, utterly exasperated—and now acutely aware that Sae was watching every second of it.

“Why… the hell are you here?” Rin spat, voice low, controlled but trembling with suppressed irritation.

Sae’s expression remained unreadable, a calm mask that only made Rin’s temper flare more. Shidou, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease, leaning slightly with that infuriating grin as if he had just arrived to stir trouble. Rin wanted to move, to explode, to unleash the kick he had restrained—but the presence of his brother made him hesitate.

Two teal eyes, so alike yet so different, held his own, and Rin realized that however much he wanted to, he couldn’t just throw a punch without dealing with the silent weight of Sae’s gaze.

The rink, the medal, the exhausted exhilaration from the competition—it all seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced by a new battlefield: Shidou smirking, and Sae standing quietly, watching.

“Leave, Demon.” Sae’s voice cut through the tension, calm but sharp, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Rin as if silently daring him to react.

Shidou’s smirk faltered for a brief second, clearly caught off guard by the sheer force behind the single word. “Awww~” he teased, dragging it out like a challenge, but even that couldn’t hide his compliance. With a casual shrug and a final, exaggerated glance at Rin, he backed away, eventually turning and disappearing with the lingering crowd.

The noise and chaos of the rink seemed to shrink with his departure. 

The crowd thinned, families and fans leaving, the other competitors gone, and the space around Rin expanded into emptiness. The only sound now was the faint scrape of skates on ice in the distance, the echo of the rink, and the quiet, steady presence of his brother.

Rin’s fists, once clenched in frustration and rage, relaxed slowly, though his chest still burned with lingering irritation. He let out a short, rough breath, staring at Sae, who remained still, arms folded, expression calm but somehow weighing.

For the first time in minutes—or maybe hours—Rin was left alone with Sae, the ice, and the quiet aftermath of the chaos. Words hovered on his lips, unsaid, as the emptiness of the rink pressed in around them, and the tension that had built with Shidou’s arrival settled into a heavy, unspoken charge between the two brothers.

The moment stretched, thick with everything Rin wasn’t ready to voice, and everything Sae seemed to already understand without needing to speak.

“I didn’t know you played…” Sae said, voice calm, casual, but with a faint trace of curiosity hidden beneath the words.

“Why are you here!?” Rin repeated, irritation flaring. His hands flexed at his sides, a defensive shield built instinctively around himself.

Sae shrugged lightly, still keeping his eyes on Rin. “The demon asked me to come,” he said, his tone nonchalant, almost teasing. “Said he got a free ticket he could spend… didn’t expect to see you perform as a competitor.”

Rin narrowed his eyes, studying his brother. 

There was that subtle trace of something else, a flicker behind Sae’s usual calm—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity. Rin’s chest tightened, the protective wall around him bristling at the thought that Sae might have been impressed, or worse, judging.

“And what?” Rin snapped, stepping slightly closer, voice sharper than he intended. “You gonna make fun of me?”

His defensive edge was unmistakable, though buried beneath it was a deeper, quieter vulnerability. Skating had been his refuge, his private world, a space no one—not football, not Blue Lock, not even Sae—had any right to enter. And now, here it was, exposed, with Sae’s teal eyes watching, observing, maybe even understanding more than Rin wanted him to.

Sae’s expression didn’t waver. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease. 

He simply studied Rin, a quiet weight in his gaze that made Rin’s chest tighten further. For the first time, Rin realized that whatever judgment or amusement he expected, it wasn’t there. And yet, the defensiveness didn’t leave. Not completely. Skating was his wall. And Rin wasn’t ready to let anyone, not even his brother, see all of him just yet.

And gradually by time pass, Rin’s fists relaxed slowly, though his shoulders remained tense. 

He looked away, focusing on the smooth surface of the rink, the faint scratches and gleam of the ice reflecting the overhead lights. For a moment, silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken words. Sae’s eyes didn’t leave him, steady and calm, but there was something softer there now, a faint acknowledgment of Rin beyond the walls he had built. 

“You… skated well,” he said finally, his voice quiet but clear, almost casual, though the weight behind the words didn’t escape Rin.

Rin’s head snapped slightly, surprise flickering across his features. “Huh?” he muttered, caught off guard by the simple statement. It wasn’t praise, not the loud, clumsy kind from a coach or teammate. It was quieter, understated, but Rin felt it sink deeper, warmer than any applause from the crowd ever could.

Sae tilted his head, a small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get used to it,” he added, a half-tease, half-warning. Yet Rin could hear it—he really meant it. Not teasing. Not mocking. Acknowledging.

Rin let out a small, almost imperceptible exhale, his guard loosening just a fraction. He couldn’t quite meet Sae’s gaze yet, but the tension that had been coiling in his chest began to ease. For the first time since arriving at the rink, he felt that the walls around him—the ones built from fear, pride, and stubbornness—weren’t entirely necessary.

He tucked the medal slightly closer to his chest, letting it catch the rink’s light, and murmured, more to himself than anyone else, “Thanks.”

Sae didn’t say anything more, just gave a nod, turning slightly to the side, giving Rin the quiet space he needed. The noise of the emptied rink, the distant scrape of ice from cleaning machines, and the lingering scent of cold air filled the silence between them—but it was no longer heavy.

For the first time that day, Rin felt a sense of quiet satisfaction, a small peace that didn’t come from winning or impressing anyone, but simply from being seen, even a little, by someone important.

Rin stepped into the house, the familiar scent of home wrapping around him like a soft, quiet hug. His muscles still ached from the morning’s performance, and the medal around his neck felt heavier now in the calm of the empty house.

And then he noticed it—a small, simple cake on the table, decorated neatly, a few candles already lit, the soft glow flickering in the quiet room.

Sae was there too, leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes softer than Rin had seen in hours.

“I hope you still have a sweet tooth,” Sae said, voice casual but with an edge of teasing warmth.

Rin blinked, a mix of surprise and faint embarrassment rising. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then muttered, “Only this once.”

Sae gave a short nod, almost like a reward for Rin’s acquiescence, and gestured toward the cake. “It’s to celebrate your first winning medal in skating. Don’t get used to it, though.”

Rin couldn’t help the small, rare smile that tugged at his lips. He stepped closer to the table, eyes lingering on the cake, then the flickering candles, and finally on Sae. There was something comforting in the gesture, something quietly proud behind the teasing words.

For the first time in a long while, Rin felt the tension of the day melt a little, replaced by warmth. He allowed himself to savor the moment—not the performance, not the medal, but this simple, fleeting acknowledgment, a small celebration just for him.

He grabbed a fork, cutting a piece carefully, and muttered, almost to himself, “I didn’t think I’d get this far…”

Sae just smirked, shaking his head lightly, “Don’t get sentimental. Eat your cake before it gets cold.”

And for a few quiet minutes, the world outside, the pressures of football, the expectations, the rivalries could wait. Rin simply sat there, medal glinting faintly under the kitchen light, cake on his plate, and the soft, steady presence of his brother beside him. Rin took a small bite of the cake, savoring the sweetness as a quiet comfort after the intensity of the day. Sae leaned against the counter, watching him with that unreadable expression that somehow felt softer than usual.

“You know…” Sae began, voice calm, almost cautious, “you don’t have to force yourself to play football just because… well, because of me. Or anyone else. If you want to keep skating, you could. I wouldn’t stop you.”

Rin paused mid-bite, eyes narrowing slightly, but not in anger—more like focus. 

He shook his head gently, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not like I’m doing it for you anymore,” he said softly, setting down his fork. Football… it’s not about being Itoshi Sae’s little brother anymore. “I’ve found… a new me out there, on the field. Skating was freedom, happiness… a place I could be myself without anyone’s expectations. But football… football is my life now. It’s where I belong.”

Sae’s gaze lingered on him, teal eyes steady, weighing every word. “I see,” he said quietly. There was no judgment, no expectation—just understanding, a rare acknowledgement of Rin’s choice. “So… skating was just… for you, then?”

Rin nodded. “Yeah. Skating is for me. Football… is for me too. But it’s not the same.” Football was a challenge, pushing him in ways skating never could. “Skating gave me freedom, but football… football gave me purpose.”

Sae let that settle between them, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Good,” he said simply. “Then do it your way. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And if you ever want to skate again… you know where to find it.”

Rin’s lips curved into a faint smile. 

He picked up his fork again, finishing the cake in quiet satisfaction. The warmth of the house, the quiet presence of his brother, the soft glow of the candles—all of it made him feel… content. Not just for the medal, or the performance, but for the clarity he had finally found.

Skating was freedom. Football was life. And he had claimed both for himself, on his own terms.