#bmwis

The thing was–

The thing was that Miroku Tsujitani was very good at his job.

He’d been skating since he was ten, since his newfound guardian had absolutely no idea what to do with him and Miroku desperately needed some sort of distraction after the death of his father. There were plenty of other sporting opportunities, other hobbies, but Mushin didn’t know much outside of his tiny little town, and that tiny little town basically had one recreation centre with skating activities throughout the entire winter season.

It was good though. Miroku liked challenges enough that skating was something to dig into, and as it turned out, he was pretty good at it. Decent enough that the coach there, an older lady by the name of Kaede, thought it would be hilarious to partner him up with one of the girls for a duet.

Her name was Sango Kuwashima and she was tiny and fierce like a baby lion. She was quick to smile, but even quicker to punch, if Miroku did anything dumb. It was…revolutionary, considering all of his other friends had been treating him like he was about to break at any second. And at the time, maybe he was. Maybe he was only one good ribbing away from losing it completely.

But Sango didn’t seem to care, mainly because she didn’t know. And that made things infinitely better. Miroku started to prefer going to the rink more and more, spending time on the ice with the brisk air and Sango’s challenging gaze upon him. She was only a year younger but far more skilled. He had to work twice as hard to keep up.

And it paid off.

Like, it actually paid off.

Fast forward to twelve years later and Miroku was still ice dancing, still partnered with one Sango Kuwashima, and the two of them were sitting in the Kiss and Cry section at the 2018 Olympics, watching their scores appear and knowing, deep in their bones, that it wouldn’t be enough. There were six other performances. The chances of maintaining even a bronze would be nigh impossible. It was their debut Olympic year, and despite placing fourth and succeeding expectations, it was a disappointment all the same. It was heart-wrenching. After twelve years of blood, sweat and tears, of practicing for ten to thirteen hours a day, nearly every day, it was—

Well. He’d leave it at heart-wrenching.

Miroku still remembered the look in Sango’s brown eyes, haunted by their mistakes as she tried to breathe out the instant, negative reactions that always cluttered her brain. It was then, tucked away behind a curtain right before they’d be forced to speak with media that Miroku cupped her face, stared her dead in the eyes, and made a vow.

Next time, he had told her. Next time, it’ll be gold. Miroku had faith: in them, in their dedication, their skill, and their chemistry.

Because here was the thing:

What most people tended to forget was that part of their job was telling a story. Ice dancing was no different than shaking it on a stage, just with different shoes and a chillier atmosphere. They were two dancers in sync to a relentless beat and a tale begging to be told.

And yes, many of those stories were intimate. Intimate in the way of lovers, most commonly, but also intimate in friendship, in hatred, in wickedness and euphoria and every emotion in between. They were ice dancing partners: whatever she did, Miroku would be there, a personal consequence to the undeniable catalyst that was Sango Kuwashima. He would always be her counterbalance, her rock. He would be there to lift her, throw her, catch her, hold her. Miroku and Sango had grown up together, had been there for firsts and seconds and everything that lay after. They had cuddled in the backseat of minivans as Sango’s father took them to practice at six in the morning. They had cried together after losing their first major competition, hands clenched tightly together.

They displayed a form of intimacy in nearly every avenue of their lives together, intimacy built on trust, on ambition, on a partnership they had dedicated themselves to since they were fourteen.

So Miroku understood, really, when people looked at them and thought: oh, you must be together. Together-together. Not just…together. Romantic versus intimate, though very few knew the difference. Again, Miroku understood. The way he danced with Sango, the way he touched her— It wasn’t like regular people did that. They were trained to look at each other at all times, to maintain eye contact, to check-in constantly with the other. It was for their partnership, which meant it was for work. They were selling a story and they were so good at it that nearly everyone was a buyer.

Still, even when they tried to explain their near-perpetual singledom, other people didn’t get it. It’s only a matter of time, they said. Why haven’t you both just confessed, others demanded.

No, Sango would tell them, firm. No, it’s not like that, not between us.

And if Miroku maybe didn’t answer, or stared a little too long, or held on a little too tight, well…