#coach!geto

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

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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.

[04:31] Sugu

Up?

Eyes still heavy from exhaustion, your thumbs move slowly over the keyboard. You squint at the luminescence of your chat with him.

[04:31]

Yes sir :)

[04:31] Sugu

Good.

Be here by 5 please

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.

45.7

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.

And even Satoru.

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.

Even you at times.

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.

"Bad mood? Good mood?"

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."

Oh, jesus christ.

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.

Italy.

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.

You nod stiffly. "Fine."

"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.

“Again." Suguru calls.

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."

"Well, hasn't she?"

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.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“It’s empty.”

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.

You considered.

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?”

“Softer.”

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.

Satoru exhales sharply.

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—"

"Where have you been?"

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.

"I-I—"

"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!"

"It's unprofessional—"

"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."

"You have Yuki—"

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.

He feels so warm.

"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.

One. Two. Three...

There.

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.

Pull in.

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.

Pull in.

“Fuck— no, no—”

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.

“Coach, we need space.”

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.

“Coach, you can’t—”

He shrugs the hand off like it burns.

“I need to be with her.”

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.

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sorry if this was dog bunsss

college!geto x ballerina!reader | ballet au ; college au ; enemies to lovers | angst and fluff | oneshot - 1/3 complete | at JJKU, suguru geto excels in classical ballet – he's also the object of your greatest ire | 8k words

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heavy - the marias

say yes to heaven - lana del rey

summertime sadness - lana del rey

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On the hottest day of July, even after the sun has scorched the concrete bone-dry, and the grass outside is starting to bake a golden brown, campus is swarming with students and almost every patch of dry grass is occupied by picnic blankets.

While you are distracted with the onigiris, Yuki grabs the last bottle of Pocari Sweat straight from the coldness of the 7-Eleven fridge. Her bony hands had shot out onto the shelf before your eyes could even register the damn thing. 

Barely even midday, your eyelids are still heavy from only four hours of sleep. 

"Sorry," the tall blonde grins, mildly apologetic, "early bird catches the worm."

The morning started off a mess; both you and Yuki had overslept your alarms because she had the genius idea of clubbing the night before. By the time you rolled into bed after getting home around six in the morning, when the birds started tweeting and the periwinkle sky was awash with golden sunlight, your alarms were left unset and your phone died soon after.

The first lecture of the morning was unattended. It is nothing important, but Nanami is meticulous and incredibly astute to those who are absent from his lectures; you are sure a disappointed email will find its way to you soon this afternoon, but that’s later’s problem and right now your hangover takes precedence. 

"I'm gonna make you eat dirt like a worm." You grumble under your breath, hands circling around a cold can of green tea from the bottom shelf. Side by side, the onigiris line the fridge shelf beckoning you to grab one but only tuna is left. Eyebags hidden behind your shades, lips pursed, your stomach turns at the thought of scoffing down anything filled with fish.

"I'll let you have a sip." She laughs softly. "I need this more than you do."

The memories of last night’s mistakes come rushing back; just fragmented flashes of neon lights and deafening bass, sticky floors and the haze of a cheap smoke machine, laughter and lots of ‘what did you say?’ over the loud music. You remember Yuki dragging you deeper into the crowd, your hand clasped in hers as bodies pressed in from all sides, the air thick with heat and cheap, sickly perfume. After the blackout, you were met with the bright sunlight pouring through your open window, shoes still on, makeup smudged beyond saving.

Your head pounds as the two of you trudge to the cashier, the fluorescent lights overhead doing absolutely nothing to help. Just as you and Yuki shuffle forward, someone cuts in front of you without so much as a glance but you do not even need to look up to know who it is: The broad shoulders, the familiar fall of black hair fashioned into a half-up half-down formation. 

“Come on, Geto–” Yuki drawls, “you being serious right now?”

Suguru Geto finally turns and shoots a cool grin at the tall blonde. 

“My bad.” 

But he doesn’t move.

His eyes flick over you once, head tilted slightly. “You look like shit,” he says flatly. “Rough night?”

Your grip tightens around your drink. 

“Missed you guys in class today.” He says smoothly. “Nanami noticed, of course.”

Yuki snorts beside you, her shoulder knocking lightly into yours as she leans past you to Suguru. “Oh, spare me,” she mutters, voice dripping with disdain. “Like you’ve never skipped a lecture in your life.”

But Suguru does not say anything as he finally steps forward to pay, completely unbothered and angular shoulders relaxed beneath his linen shirt like he hadn’t just inserted himself into your morning and made it ten times worse. You glare daggers at the back of his head, irritation flaring.

You hate him. There has not been a single day where you have actually enjoyed his presence because he always has something to say.

The first time you laid eyes on Suguru Geto was at a freshman induction event. You can still remember it.

In the large hall, loud with introductions and awkward small talk, everyone was hovering between curiosity and nerves, but he had looked completely at ease. There he was, leaning back in the hard plastic chair with his slender arms folded across his chest, his dark purple irises observing. 

That interaction left a sour taste in your mouth because not only was he a pretentious cock, and has clearly never been humbled a day in his life, he’s also got the face carved by the gods themselves – the ugliness of within certainly does not match the pretty exterior. 

You had barely gotten two words out before he shot you down with an uninterested look. The black haired man was sitting with three others, Satoru Gojo, Yuka Okkotsu, and this massive broad-shouldered guy with a scar running vertically down his lip, whose name you had not learned yet – but that was also the precise reason you ended up in Suguru’s bad books. Or rather, he ended up in yours.

“Oh, are you also majoring in Classical Ballet?”

It was innocent enough – and you aren’t the type to judge. A part of you thought that maybe this mystery hunk of muscle was majoring in something else but he was sitting with the other two at the induction so naturally you asked, to be polite. In all honesty, he looked less like a ballet student and more like someone who could bench press a building for fun.

Suguru let out a sharp laugh that cut through the hum of voices.

“Fushiguro?” he scoffed, tilting his head toward the towering guy beside him. “Are you dumb, or blind? Look at him– he’s clearly not on our course." 

His expression was slightly amused and faintly condescending. Meanwhile, you could feel the heat creep up the back of your neck and your ears felt warm. Before the god awful silence could go on any further, Satoru Gojo leaned forward with an easy grin, clearly sensing your humiliation. 

“Don’t mind him,” he said, waving a hand toward Suguru dismissively. “He just likes hearing himself talk.”

Yuta offered you a hesitant smile. “I’m Yuta, by the way.”

Even though the tension eased a little, Suguru still looked vaguely uninterested, leaning back in his chair and mentally checked out. But at least the others were at least making an effort. You nodded slowly, still mildly offended that he was so vile but grateful someone had attempted damage control.

“Fushiguro’s just here because we all came together.” Yuta said, nodding a head at the giant man. “He’s a sports science major.”

The large man, Fushiguro, gave a small nod of confirmation and said you could call him Toji. He was nice enough to hold his hand out, maybe because he felt bad that Suguru was such a dick, but nevertheless, you took it anyway and said your name is Y/N.

While that moment cemented your immediate dislike of Suguru Geto, his friends weren’t half bad. Unfortunately, the feeling only got worse from there. As the weeks turn into months, it becomes very clear that Suguru Geto simply does not like you either.

Even as he gives the two of you a flippant wave, sauntering out of the automatic doors of the 7 Eleven, you are still glaring at the back of his stupid head until he shrinks into a dot in the distance.

You see him everywhere. In technique classes. In lectures. At rehearsals. Ballet is a small program, and rehearsals are almost every single day which means there is absolutely no avoiding him. And somehow, every single interaction between the two of you is worse every time.

If it wasn’t for Yuki, you wouldn’t have hung around him and his group so much; but somehow by association, you get invited to almost every single group outing with him and his friends. He doesn’t even hide his distaste for you in a group setting.

Suguru has a way of speaking to you that feels like a constant test of patience. Even now in junior year, you feel as though you should have gotten used to his attitude but you still cannot stand him.

If you ask a question in class, he mutters something snarky just loud enough for you to hear. If you miss a step during choreography, he snickers like humiliating you is his life’s work. You despise him but you live with it. He is a talented dancer – that is the worst part.

By the end of junior year, the studio is basically your second home; even at night, in your dreams the familiar scent of rosin and worn wood clings to the air. The afternoon is mostly quiet – the day is too hot to do anything. 

Having missed the lecture earlier, the two of you end up trudging to class with the ghost of this morning’s hangover having done a number on your energy levels. 

As sunlight filters through the tall windows, catching the glossiness of your hair, your arms elongate as you bend over to stretch your leg on the barre wall. The mirrors stretch endlessly across the walls, reflecting rows of students standing at the barre as the pianist plays something jovial yet light.

Across the room, Suguru Geto is already there, hand on the barre, eyes already watching you through the mirror. Of course he is. He stands a few places down from Yuta, posture annoyingly perfect as he moves through a slow plié like the exercise had been designed specifically for him; on account of you meeting his gaze, he scowls and looks away.

At the front of the room, Kento Nanami stands with his clipboard tucked neatly beneath one arm, glasses perched low on his nose as he surveys the room; he is in a loosely tucked-in white shirt and some grey slacks. His blond hair is already a little messy from his large hands running through them.

“We’ll pause there,” Nanami says evenly.

Students step away from the barre, shaking out their legs and shoulders. The room fills with the soft sounds of stretching shoes and quiet murmurs. Nanami flips a page on his clipboard, a soft sigh slumping his shoulders.

“As you are all aware,” he continues, voice calm, “the department’s winter production will be Swan Lake.”

A small ripple of excitement moves through the room. Beside you, Yuki squeals quietly in delight. Leaning closer, she nudges your arm and whispers a fervent, “I knew it.”. Just three weeks ago, she swears that she had seen the costume department wheeling racks into storage; rows of white tutus, feathered headpieces, and soft layers of tulle that could only belong to swan costumes. 

At the time, you had brushed it off as another one of her overenthusiastic theories because the costume department is always moving things around and the college has a production on next month. 

Glancing up at everyone’s bright and hopeful faces, Nanami announces, “Over the next week, I will be selecting dancers for principal and supporting roles.”

Immediately, the room hushes and postures straighten. Even the most relaxed students look suddenly alert – every dancer knows what this means. The swan queen. Prince Siegfried. The roles everyone secretly wants. Competition is incredibly high; you are dancing for one of the most competitive ballet schools in the country. Your fingers tighten slightly against the barre.

“I already have an idea of who will be playing who.” Nanami says evenly. “I will be announcing the casting on Friday– you all have three days to confirm what I’ve already chosen.”

What the fuck?

The room buzzes with whispers again, softer this time, eyes darting between friends and rivals alike. Everyone is imagining themselves in the roles, picturing the tutus and the solos, rehearsing the steps in their heads, the glory of a standing ovation. 

Suguru exhales quietly through his nose because three days will not be changing a thing. He knows that Nanami has been watching everyone for weeks now.The way Nanami has been lingering at the edge of rehearsals, the extra attention paid during combinations, the long, thoughtful notes scribbled onto that clipboard; Nanami already knows who he wants and he hopes that it will be him. If Suguru is being honest with himself, which he often is, there are only two people in the entire class who realistically stand a chance at the principal roles. The thought sits in his chest like a splinter. 

He forces his attention back onto his form in the mirror, then lowers into another plié, controlled and precise. His focus is shattered when the sound of a soft, unexpected sound drifts through the studio to his end. Your laughter makes his head tilt, irritation flickering behind his dark gaze. He swivels back to the barre, forcing his posture rigid, refusing to let his eyes linger any longer than necessary.

You manage to go through that class relatively unscathed, until it is nearly finished when the sun outside has died a little and the streets are awash with blue-orange hues. In the studio, students begin stretching out their shoulders, massaging sore calves and untying their pointe shoes. On the glossed floor, you sit with Yuki, Utahime, and Shoko. This morning, Mai had called in sick – apparently last night’s bender went too far.

Satoru’s voice is loud and jarring amongst the quiet chattering, and he has no shame about it as he stalks over with Suguru under his arm. They are flanked by Yuta and Noritoshi, who already have their coats on and bags slung over their shoulders.

You feel small under Suguru’s gaze on you; for someone who hates you, he sure does look at you a lot. He has that effortless, unreadable expression on his face again. 

“Frat party Friday night. You all coming?” Satoru grins. “Sukuna’s… again.”

Suguru’s dark eyes flick toward you for the briefest moment, then he mutters, loud enough for his friends to hear, but as if you aren’t even there: “Does she really have to come?”

You scoff, loudly. Face immediately twisting; he barely eyes how your nose scrunches in open irritation as you lean back on your palms. “Oh my god, you are actually such a dick,” you say, not even bothering to lower your voice.

Satoru, completely unfazed, lets out a laugh, slinging an arm more firmly around Suguru’s shoulders. “Ignore him,” he says easily, flashing you a grin. “He’s in a bad mood because he got dumped last night– isn’t that right, Suguru?”

Suguru shrugs him off with a slight roll of his shoulder, expression barely changing. “Just saying, don’t wanna ruin the vibe.”

Your jaw tightens. For a moment, you just stare at him speechless, the heat of the day and the dull throb of your hangover sitting heavy behind your eyes.

“It won’t be fun unless you pretty girls are there,” Satoru sings, roughing up the top of your head with his abnormally large hand. This earns him a disgruntled groan from you. “Starts at ten.”

“I’ll be there.” You say poignantly, eyes not leaving Suguru. “Should be fun.”

Suguru’s eyes flick back to yours, sharper this time, something unreadable passing through those dark irises before he huffs slightly.

“Looking forward to it,” he says coolly.

Satoru groans loudly, dragging both hands down his face. “You two are exhausting.”

“He started it.” You shoot back.

Suguru lets the corner of his mouth twitch just enough to make it obvious that you amuse him. Sometimes. Satoru throws up his hands in defeat, muttering something about babysitting before throwing his arm around Suguru again and dragging the dark haired mass toward the door, still grumbling about acting civil. Beside you Utahime swallows a chuckle and you glance at the girls, all of them grinning knowingly, and for a moment the tension melts while confusion swirls behind your eyes. 

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Shoko smirks, “the two of you are hopeless.”

────₊˚⊹♡ ────

“I thought he said he has an idea already– why the fuck is he still walking around with a clipboard?” Yuki fervently whispers to you, though her eyes are set on the wall ahead. 

You sigh softly, warily eyeing Nanami’s tall figure drifting silently around the studio as he watches each person do their daily barre routine. He stops by Shoko for a moment, nodding slightly, and then Mai who is behind her with beads of sweat on her forehead, a delicate hand gripping the barre so hard that her knuckles are turning white.

“Maybe he’s still finalising.” You say quietly, moving in sync with everyone else as the pianist begins his next rendition. “He’s making me nervous.”

“I just hope it’s not me,” you hear Utahime whisper from behind you, “I cannot be fucked to be the lead.”

A small part of you wishes that enthusiasm and ambition could be suppressed in the same way Utahime manages her own. It would be much simpler if you could block all of it out and be happy on the sidelines, staying in the corps. The other half of you that craves the spotlight through discipline and gruelling effort does not want that to happen; ambition weaves itself into every muscle rippling as you extend your arm, your leg, rise on the tips of your toes whenever Nanami commands you to do it again. 

It isn’t loud, the way you want things – and in truth, it never has been. Your ambition sits quietly beneath your ribs, persistent, woven into the hours you spend at the barre long after others have left, into the way you correct yourself without being asked – into every small adjustment no one else notices. You haven’t risen above the ranks in the way you deserve yet – everyone in this ballet school is extremely talented. You hope that Nanami will see you for once, though you know you will never beg for it.

But now so many girls must want to be the swan queen. It will take so much to truly do those roles justice; to slip between them is to hold both restraint and abandon in the same body, to be delicate and devastating all at once, and make it all look convincing. Yuki would do the role justice. 

In the midst of your thoughts you can barely hear Nanami’s voice cut through the piano. He calls for a ten minute break, sensing how exhausted everyone is. In truth, the whole class has been on edge since his surprise announcement last week, and it has been made worse by the fact that he has been secretly watching everyone for weeks now. The entire room exhales in relief when the tall blond exits the room. People scatter to their bags, slumping down on the polished wooden floor, hands fumbling with water bottle lids. 

Yuki exhales as she stretches her calf, body folded over while she rests her foot on the barre. “I must say – I’d be happy just doing the bit with the cygnets.”

“You don’t want the queen?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed.

This earns a scoff from her. “Hell no, first real production of our degree and dancing the lead? Do you know how much pressure that is?”

You shrug, “I thought it’d be a good opportunity to get your name out there.”

“I don’t think I want it enough, honestly…” Yuki muses, taking her bottom lip in between her teeth. “But I think you do, right?”

You hum, “I just don’t want to get my hopes up. You know how it is.”

Utahime hums behind you in agreement, stretching her arms above her head with a soft groan. “That’s exactly why it won’t be me,” she mutters.

You let out a small breath, gaze dropping to the floor. “There are too many talented people in this cohort,” you add, softer this time. “People who actually–”

“–have the talent to pull it off?”

Your spine stiffens immediately. You do not even need to turn around to know it is him, but when you do, he is already there leaning lazily against the barre a few feet away, arms folded with his stoic expression unreadable but dark eyes sharp. The sunlight pouring into the studio from the open windows just behind you catches on his dark hair, which has been tied up into a bun, a strand of it falling effortlessly down the left side of his face. In your silence, the corner of his lip twitches.

“You’re probably correct,” he continues flatly. “It won’t be you. God, that would take a miracle wouldn’t it?”

Your jaw tightens. If he wasn’t such a talented dancer, perhaps you might have just dismissed him. But you and everyone else knows of his raw talent, his discipline, so his words linger, unwelcome, pressing into the very insecurities you try so hard to keep buried. 

“You’re fucking insufferable.” You say quietly, words hanging in the thick air between you. 

Suguru doesn’t move. His arms remain folded across his chest but his eyes narrow at your words. “Am I?” he hums softly, tilting his head. “Or are you just upset because I said what you were already thinking?”

Yuki straightens immediately beside you, irritation flaring across her face.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. The familiar urge to bite back remains, to match his tone and say something hurtful towards him but you just scoff.

“For someone who clearly doesn’t rate me, you spend an awful lot of time talking to me unwarranted.”

Suguru exhales softly through his nose, gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than it should before he finally looks away and without a word, retreats to Yuta and Satoru when the doors open and Nanami returns. 

“What a prick,” Yuki murmurs, “I don’t know how the others can stand him.”

“Beats me.” You murmur as the three of you take your positions along the wall again. 

Nanami’s eyes scan the room before he gives the pianist a subtle nod and then the airy music fills the studio again. The air feels hot, buzzing with anticipation of exactly who he has chosen and who will have to make the cut next time. When everyone rises onto the tips of their toes, bodies elevating to pointe, you exhale, heart hammering and pulse still drumming from that interaction with Suguru. Perhaps there is some truth in his words, a reluctant acceptance that maybe you are not good enough. But the other part of you longs for a reality where Suguru ceases to exist, and you remind yourself that his words are exactly just that – words. 

Your chin lifts as muscle memory takes over. Across the room, Suguru mirrors the same control, the same ease. His movements are sharp and effortless, as though not only does the music bend around him, but everyone else in the room melts away. You catch it only once, through the mirror, the way his absent gaze flickers toward you before he looks away again, dark irises focusing on anything other than you.

He is quiet for the rest of class, but you tell yourself the peace never lasts as long as you want it to.

The next day is tense. Usually Yuki and Shoko and everyone else would be buzzing about the frat party happening in the evening, or whatever motive is going on later, but the air is hot with anticipation in the studio today. 

Nanami has spent most of the morning asking each girl to perform a one minute segment from Odile’s solo, and likewise, the same with Prince Siegfried’s variation in Act Three for the boys. Everyone watches each other with a kind of quiet scrutiny, like it is every dancer for themselves and no one is willing to admit it aloud. It’s tough, and enough to send your mind spiralling when you were all commanded to be in the studio ready to dance at 07:30 sharp. It is the earliest class Nanami has ever held, and he gave you all five minutes exactly to memorise the choreography from watching the respective video performance he had sent via email upon everybody’s arrival. A true test of everyone’s dedication to the art, and likewise, mental gymnastics because the anxiety has been eating away at you.

You hate to admit it but you think Suguru may actually get Siegfried’s part – he danced exceptionally well, effortlessly, like he was born for the role because every movement had truly been clean and controlled in a way that made it all seem instinctive rather than learned within five minutes. From where he sits now, arms loosely folded across his knees as he watches the others take their turn, Suguru feels the same restless energy that grips the room – hell, everyone feels it. He knows he did better than most with the little time he had and he does not need validation to confirm it. 

Still, his gaze flickers, almost involuntarily, toward you. You aren't even looking at him, which is the worst part. He can’t even mouth something snarky at you to beat you down a little more. Something about you irritates the fuck out of him but he can’t pinpoint what it is; he sees you as another ambitious dancer trying to make something for herself. You’re nobody special. 

He tells himself that it is all out of habit, that same critical lens he casts over everyone else, but his attention lingers longer than it should. You do not move like the others – there is something restrained about you that he does not see in any of the other girls. 

Every extension of your leg, every tiny lift of your hand, carries a quiet intensity, and he finds himself noticing these menial details he normally would not give a damn about: From the way your fingers curved slightly, to the subtle shift of weight in your hips, to how your eyes flicked to the mirror before every turn – even down to the small breath you hold before you rise onto the tip of your pointe shoes.

By the time your solo ended, his head had tilted slightly, jaw tightening, but he had nothing to sneer at Yuta or Satoru or Noritoshi about you, so he only leant back on his palms with an indiscernible look on his face. You remember hearing him scoff as you finished and how it made you feel suddenly too aware of the twenty something pairs of eyes concentrating on you. 

The anxiety soon subsided and you didn’t dare look Suguru’s way afterwards.

When Shoko’s left foot finally touches the polished floor again, Nanami nods and scribbles something onto the pad of paper he has in his lap. She sits down with a grimace on her face. Utahime puts a hand on her forearm reassuringly. She was the last.

“God, I forgot the last ten seconds of her solo.” Shoko murmurs, dragging a hand down her face. 

“Don’t worry, at least you didn’t start crying like Yorozu did halfway,” Yuki says quietly. “I think I fucked the beginning actually.”

When Nanami finally rises to his feet, everybody in the studio stiffens; the weight of the morning, of the endless repetition, the anxiety of knowing your every movement has been scrutinised not only by him but your peers, bears down like a physical mass crushing you into pulp.

Nanami finally speaks.

“Suguru Geto will be Prince Siegfried.”

 A ripple of astonished murmurs spreads across the studio, disrupting the tense silence. The boys clap him on the back as he smiles triumphantly, head shaking in almost relief. A thick strand of hair escapes his bun and frames his face gently. 

You hear Mai scoff behind you in quiet disdain. “Of course.” 

For a moment, the words Nanami is speaking do not even register. Of course it’s Suguru – he is one of the most talented dancers here. You shouldn’t be surprised, and the hope that you might even get the main role starts dwindling.

Completely zoned out, the hum of the room fades into a muffled buzz, as your eyes cast towards the clipboard he has pressed against his side, crinkling his blue shirt. 

Nanami announces the girl who will be dancing the swan queen. Suguru’s head snaps up – almost violently – eyes widening ever so slightly. The corner of his mouth twitches in surprise, amusement, disdain all at once. Stupid girl hasn’t even clocked what Nanami just said.

The muffling ceases as you feel a hand slap your shoulder and it brings you back to planet earth. 

“Wait what?”

“Y/N! Y/N! Did you hear that?!” Yuki’s shrill whisper. “Oh my god– you’re going to be great.”

Yuki squeals softly and claps your shoulder, her grin almost painful in its enthusiasm. Utahime nudges you, eyes sparkling with approval. Shoko and Mai exchange quick, gleeful looks, patting your back. From across the room, Satoru’s booming voice cuts through the haze. “Fuck yeah, Y/N– let’s get it!” 

The snowy-haired boy pumps a fist into the air, grinning like it’s a personal victory. When Nanami sends him a look of disapproval, Satoru lets his hand fall to his side, silence resuming once more as a sheepish look graces his light features.

It takes a moment longer for the sound of your own name to pierce the fog. “Y/N,” Nanami repeats, clipboard in hand, eyes still calm but unwavering. “You will be the swan queen.”

You can feel your pulse hammering in your ears as your eyes lock with Suguru’s from across the room. The weight of his gaze makes the feeling in your chest sink in heavier, planting you firmly to the ground even as Yuki’s strong hands are on your shoulders, tilting you on the slippery floor. 

The swan queen.

You.

For a moment, all four limbs remain frozen; around you, the room is loud with murmurs, and soft claps, and somehow Satoru is still hooting and hollering, but it all feels distant, like you are hearing it from underwater while the world continues to spin on without you present. 

On the other side of the room, Suguru’s eyes harden with realisation: Endless rehearsals. Late evenings that bleed into night. Endless hours in the studio, sweat-soaked and unforgiving, and bearing all of Nanami’s corrections barked out under the hot lights. Hours on end of holding your hand or pulling you into his body, skin on skin. You eye how he presses his tongue briefly to the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing as he looks away from you, accepting.

When the room finally settles, and Nanami has called out the rest of the cast, he dismisses everyone. Utahime, Yuki, Shoko and Mai will dance as the cygnets for the pas de quatre. Satoru has managed to bag Rothbart’s role. At least some rehearsals with Suguru will be broken up into some evenings spent with Satoru. Reluctantly, you look away from your dear Prince Siegfried and rise to your feet with everybody else. Still, that weird, tight feeling in your chest doesn’t subside.

“This is massive,” Mai praises, lightly nudging your shoulder. “Well-deserved, I’d say.”

Yuki grins. “Right? And lucky you, endless rehearsals with Geto.”

“If I don’t kill myself before the first show.” You mumble to yourself,  the words slipping out before you can stop them. 

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

Satoru’s voice cuts in, and before you can react, his lanky arm slings easily around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like it is second nature. To him, it probably is – you have lost count of the amount of times this man has done something similar at Sukuna’s infamous parties. Or on field trips.

His warmth jolts you slightly, and the haze of the hot studio suddenly dissipates.

The snowy-haired man grins down at you, shades already sliding halfway down his nose, unbothered as he always is. “You’ll be fine. You’re a great ballerina– like, actually good. Nanami’s not stupid.”

You huff softly in response, speechless somewhere between disbelief and amusement, but the warmth of the gesture settles something in your chest. “Yeah, I mean– lucky you, Rothbart.”

Satoru merely grins down at you, clearly chuffed with his own role. “Try not to fall in love with me on stage, yeah?” he adds lightly, giving your shoulder a squeeze. 

Yuki fake gags, rolling her eyes. “You’re such a flirt.”

“I flirt with everyone– sorry, Y/N.”

This earns a quiet scoff from you, “You are not my type– sorry, ‘Toru.”

“I’m everyone’s type.” Satoru says decisively, hand clutching his chest in feign hurt. “Ask ‘Hime– even she had a crush on me–”

The girl in question turns bright red at this and she reaches across the group to swat him swiftly on the arm. “Do NOT bring that up again,” she grits. “Horrible, horrible boy–”

“Ow– ow– ow– stop it!”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at your lips now, the tension in your chest easing just enough to let you breathe again.

Across the room, Suguru watches as he tugs his Converse on. He traces his best friend’s lanky arm hanging over your shoulders, to the way you lean into his side slightly as the whole group laughs at something Shoko has said. It is vehemently irritating. The whole thing is irritating. The way Satoru talks to you so easily, the way you do not shrug him off, the way you agreed without hesitation the other day when you were invited to Sukuna’s party tonight and you only said yes because you wanted to spite him. Under his breath, Suguru grumbles and cinches his laces so hard that it cuts off circulation to his already-sore feet.

But when Satoru stalks back over with his jacket slung over his shoulders and a shit-eating grin on his face, Suguru can only scowl and grumble another curse. 

“You good?”

“Feeling friendly, are we?”

Satoru’s eyebrows draw together, “Yeah, we’re in the same group of friends in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Yeah but she’s fucking annoying,” Suguru bites, “and now I gotta see her tonight as well?”

“It’s just you who feels that way,” Satoru laughs, “you need to be civil if you’re going to spend the next few months with each other.”

“If I don’t kill myself before the first show.”

A wide grin spreads across Satoru’s face, slow and knowing, like he’s just connected two very amusing dots.

“Funnily enough, that’s what she said five minutes ago.”

But by the time the clock hits 23:30 and Delta Phi’s party is in full swing, that same irritation gnawing at his very bones has not gone away.

If anything, it’s settled deeper knowing that you will walk through the doors any second now or worse, you are already here under Satoru’s arm again or something.

Music blares loud enough to rattle the walls, bass thudding through the floorboards as bodies press together in dim, flickering lights, moving in waves to the song playing. The air stinks of weed and salt and sweet alcohol spilled onto the marbled floors. Somewhere along the way, Sukuna made one of the pledges drag a table into the middle of the room; now half the party has gathered around it, shouting over one another. 

The pink-haired, tattooed man and his black-haired equal in muscle mass and stature, Toji Fushiguro, are hunched over, opposite each other; their elbows are planted firmly against the table, hands clasped tight. Sukuna grins under the strobing lights, white canines glinting in the luminescence.

Suguru stands amongst them, shoulder to shoulder with Yuta and Megumi, a red cup of something sweet and sharp held loosely in his hand. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow sip, gaze fixed ahead.

“Three, two, one – go!”

Muscles ripple instantly, and Sukuna is still grinning, unhinged, while Toji’s expression stays flat, almost bored, like this show of strength is nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Black ink stretches and warps over Sukuna’s skin as the muscles in his forearm bunch and strain; meanwhile, a slow ripple beneath Toji’s pale skin can be seen as he pushes back inch by inch against Sukuna’s strong grip but both men hardly shift.

Suguru watches over the rim of his cup, detached, until the crowd breaks a little on the opposite side, and both you and Yuki weave into the front line with lazy grins and quiet giggles. He resists the urge to roll his eyes when Satoru opens his arms wide and the two of you shift under his hold instinctively.

From across the table, his snowy-haired friend sends him a smirk and this time, Suguru really does roll his eyes as he chugs the rest of his cup and throws it off to the side.

The whole thing is so chaotic you don’t even notice Suguru across the room. Someone keeps bumping into you from behind and you are sure that the back of your jeans has been dampened by one of the pledges spilling beer on you earlier. Sweat rolls down your back beneath the thin mesh of your cami. Satoru’s arm feels hot over your shoulders.

“Smoke?”

Yuki’s already nodding. “Yeah, fuck this heat– c’mon.”

Satoru peels himself away with a dramatic groan, throwing one last apologetic grin your way before letting himself be dragged off, and then you’re alone again with a bunch of frat guys and new pledges. God knows where Shoko is – probably smoking outside already, and Utahime was getting chatted up by Naoya Zenin the last time you saw her.

For a moment, it looks as though Sukuna might have tilted Toji’s arm a little on the wooden table but then with a decisive slam, the latter’s wrist twists just enough; his arm tightens in one clean, decisive motion before he slams Sukuna’s hand flat against the hard surface. In the midst of the room erupting, Sukuna barks out a laugh, loudly, and shakes his arm out as he leans back in his chair. 

“Tch– Fushiguro, you got me again.”

Toji only huffs, rolling his shoulder with a satisfied grin. “And you think you can bench more than me?”

“I know I can bench more than you.” Sukuna laughs.

As Toji leans back in his chair, a pledge hands him a beer and for a brief second he catches your gaze. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to show up to one of these,” he calls to you, voice raising over the crowd.

You shrug lightly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think you’d win that so easily.”

Hands clap Toji and Sukuna’s back, the latter rising to his feet as a familiar sorority girl manages to capture his attention. Toji merely hums, smirking at whoever just congratulated him before he too, straightens up and lets his gaze flicker back to you.

“Come on, let’s get outta here.”

Since when were you and Toji close like that? Ugh. Half-turned away, Suguru watches with narrowed eyes as a girl who is pressed a little too close to his side, fingers grazing his arm, talks about… the last sorority party? Someone called Hana? He doesn’t even know anymore, yet he pretends to listen as his gaze follows your and Toji weaving through the crowd to a corner of the room.

Her voice is pitched just enough to be flattering and normally, he’d entertain it – but tonight, his mood is sour and seeing you here does not help, so he doesn’t.

You are leaning on your side a little, on the wall, still talking to Toji with a faint smile gracing your glossed lips. Toji seems more animated as he takes a swig of his bottle, laughing as he says something and then you’re mirroring him. Suguru watches intently as the giant hunk of muscle hands you his bottle and you manage to chug down the last of its contents.

His jaw tightens.

You’re insufferable. Why are you even here anyway? To spite him, no doubt.

The girl says something which he didn’t hear. He nods anyway, layers of black hair falling over his shoulders.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?” she says, half-teasing.

“Mhm–” he hums noncommittally, already looking away again.

The girl at his side says his name again, sharper this time. “Seriously, what are you looking at?”

Suguru blinks once, like he’s been dragged back into his own body. “Nothing,” he says flatly. “Tell me about Hana again?”

You feel a pair of eyes watching you, but for once you pull away from the temptation of looking and turn a little more to face Toji instead. He’s not exactly bad to look at.

“Honestly,” he says, voice loud against the music, “I didn’t expect you to show up tonight. Thought you’d be, I don’t know– practicing?”

You laugh softly, the sound carrying more freely than it has all week. “And miss seeing you lose to Sukuna? Never.”

Toji chuckles, shaking his head, and then tilts his bottle toward you in a small, almost ceremonial toast. “Well, congratulations, Swan Queen, right?”

You blink. “Wait– what?”

“Yuta told me earlier,” he says, leaning into you. “Apparently you got the lead. Pretty big deal, no?”

Your pulse quickens, a warm rush of pride and the sudden awareness of his body heat threatening to bloom pink over your cheeks. “Yeah, that’s me,” you murmur, smiling sheepishly. “I’m super nervous to be honest.”

Toji laughs, clearly oblivious to the technicalities of ballet. “Well, I think Nanami has the right idea – guess that means I get to see you twirling around in a tutu or whatever.”

You chuckle again, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’d enjoy ballet.”

“Maybe you should invite me to your show.” He retorts lightly, eyes gleaming. “Guess I won’t know until I watch you dance for me, right?”

Is he flirting?

You could almost laugh. Half of you is surprised that Toji is flirting with you; you can probably count on one hand the amount of times he’s been confident enough to do this, given that the two of you have hung out in a group setting multiple times and interactions are always tepid. The other half of you thinks that Toji is a typical flirty frat guy so really, it isn’t all that surprising.

Across the room, Suguru hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away from you and Toji. Oh, how your very existence bothers him. Even though the girl at his side has leant in, soft lips brushing against the hollow of his neck, hands wandering lightly over his shoulder and down his broad chest, he is unable to focus. 

Between the strong liquor coursing through his veins and the slight haze that has settled over his vision, eyes half-lidded in his drunken state, he feels like he might actually hate you. Every laugh, every glance, every small gesture you make towards Toji somehow makes his stomach tighten with something he is unable to explain apart from the fact that he finds you exceptionally annoying. 

He grits his teeth and wills himself to concentrate on maybe getting his dick wet tonight, but when Toji’s hand brushes over your arm, something snaps and he finds himself pushing off the girl and through the crowd. 

“You,” he growls suddenly, storming up to you, voice low and words slurring over the chatter and music, laced with bile and alcohol. “Are you done flirting with all of my friends?”

You glance up at him, frozen mid-laugh, the warmth in your chest screeching to a halt. “Excuse me?”

He sneers. “What? Satoru’s attention wasn’t enough for you earlier and now you gotta flirt with Fushiguro too?” 

Beside you, Toji shifts and puts a steady hand on his friend’s shoulder with a heavy sigh. “Come on, man, you’re drunk–”

“I’m fine,” Suguru retorts, though he reeks of vodka. “I wasn’t talking to you anyway–”

“It’s a party,” Toji emphasises, “let’s not ruin it–”

Suguru laughs, head tilting at that dumb look on your face. His dark eyes narrow. It seems the drunken haze has sharpened his tongue instead of dulling it.

“You think because Nanami has made you the lead, you’re the shit now– is that it?” He continues. “You know what– you’re not even good enough to dance the lead. Nanami made a mistake–”

Toji cuts in. “What’s your problem–” 

You lift a hand to Toji’s thick forearm, stepping in front now until you are face to face with Suguru.

His dark eyes are half-lidded, the faint glow of pink tinging his cheeks from the copious amount of drink he has been indulging in all night.

Your heart is hammering uncomfortably in your chest now; the pride you had felt minutes ago about being the Swan Queen collapses into hurt and humiliation. Hot tears threaten to blur your vision as the party fades into a dull roar but you blink it back.

“If you have an issue with Nanami’s decision, you take it to him in class– you don’t make it personal at some fucking party.”

Though your tone is firm, Suguru can hear the waver in your voice and for a moment he wants to back down, turn around like nothing has happened but months of pent up frustration and dislike claws its way up his slender throat.

“You’re a shit dancer and you’re fucking easy–”

Your face immediately falls, your hand falling to your side and fidgeting with the hem of your top. For a brief, horrifying second, all you feel is the weight of every syllable spat at you at the same calibre as bullets. But then something flickers behind his cruel eyes and his laughter dies, remnants hanging mid-air, when he sees your face, the hurt and disbelief in your eyes glassy. For a moment longer than necessary, sober clarity shatters the haze of alcohol and his features soften a little. He swallows.

You see it, but you don’t ponder on exactly what has changed between now and five seconds ago.

“Dude,” Toji mutters under his breath, a frown crossing his face, “come on–”

But Suguru just waves him off and he pushes that guilty feeling away. “Relax, I’m just being honest.”

Pushing past him, your hands tremble at your sides. You can feel the hotness in your cheeks, the way your top is clinging to your skin a little too much, and the music sounds deafening enough that it drowns out your pulse throbbing in your ears. 

Yuki shouts your name, hopping off Choso’s lap from the couch as you walk past her to the front door. You never turn back, for fear that someone will see you are actually crying now – and at a party of all places. How embarrassing. 

As Suguru watches your figure retreat further and further until you disappear out of the front door in a hurry, his hand twitches at his side. Toji sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Fucking idiot.

There is no denying there has always been a rift between the two of you; enough so that on the last camping trip the group went on, Suguru opted to stay in a completely different campsite and you had almost shoved him off the side of a cliff mid-hike when he wouldn’t stop complaining about you walking too slow.

The drunk male jolts a little when Toji claps a firm hand on his shoulder before letting him go with a slight shove.

“Just go home, man– you’re drunk.”

Suguru swallows hard. Toji leaves, shaking his head. Across the room, Yuki’s head turns from the open door, where music is spilling out into the quiet street, to Suguru’s pale face hardening under the flickering lights. Her light eyebrows draw together, seemingly piecing together what has just gone on, and without mouthing anything expletive, she huffs and leaves the party in search of you.

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