Chapter Text
The extra tightness in Akio’s chest had finally eased, settling into the pressure he'd felt since he first remembered, nothing like the weight that had gripped him over the weekend. Last Friday’s twin stabs of pain, striking within hours of each other, had left a lingering anxiety that refused to dissipate fully. Now, as he stood rinkside, he pressed a hand to his sternum, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles in a vain attempt to soothe the discomfort. It didn’t help.
With a quick breath, he ran a hand through his meticulously gelled black hair, fingers gliding over the hardened strands as he tried to steady himself. The cold of the rink kissed his skin, the hum of the crowd a dull throb in his ears while he waited for the current performance to end.
Beside him, Seth Rios, his long-time figure skating coach, watched with concern. “Is your chest hurting again?” he asked, his voice low but edged with tension.
Akio shook his head slightly, eyes still fixed on the ice. “No. Just... uncomfortable,” he murmured, more to himself than to Seth.
The final music notes faded, and the arena erupted into applause. Cheers rang out, bouncing off the high ceilings, as the spotlight followed the departing skater off the rink.
Coach Rios turned toward him. “Are you ready?”
Akio gave a firm nod, masking the last traces of unease. As the other skater—Jaxon Brush, last year’s runner-up—stepped off the ice, Akio met him with a brief high five, a silent acknowledgement of the performance.
The arena’s announcer launched into his commentary, voice booming over the sound system: “What a gorgeous performance from last year’s runner-up, Jaxon Brush. Has he done enough to secure this year’s title? Or will our next competitor take it?”
The crowd quieted as the energy shifted.
“Our final competitor is the reigning champion. Will he defend his crown or pass the torch? Let’s find out. Please welcome Akio Doe, performing to Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen!”
As the spotlight swung to him, Akio stepped onto the ice. He raised one hand in greeting to the crowd, a small, controlled smile on his lips. Then he glided into position, breath catching in the hush as the lights dimmed and the music began.
The opening piano chords of Bohemian Rhapsody drifted into the darkened arena like the first ripples of a tide. A single spotlight bathed Akio in pale light, catching the shimmer of his costume—black with deep crimson accents, like a night sky licked by fire. His chest rose once, then fell. The moment stretched.
Then—movement.
He glided backwards in a smooth arc, arms outstretched, face tilted toward the rafters as the first line rang out: “Is this real life? Is this just fantasy?” His expression shifted with the lyrics, mirroring the haunting uncertainty in Freddie Mercury’s voice. The choreography began subtle, flowing steps, a controlled edge, and small spins drawn with aching precision. It wasn’t showy. It was storytelling.
Akio wasn’t just skating. He was unspooling a memory, a truth buried under muscle and ice and pressure.
When the tempo lifted—“Mama, just killed a man…”—he launched into a triple toe loop, landing with a crisp edge that sliced across the ice like a razor. The crowd gasped. He transitioned immediately into a sit spin, body low, one leg extended perfectly, his face a mask of grief and conflict. The haunting drama of the music poured through him.
The arena exploded with colour as the song swelled into its operatic frenzy. Lights flared and flickered in tandem with the frantic layering of voices—“Galileo! Figaro!”—and Akio became a blur of speed and grace. He vaulted into a triple axel, his most difficult jump, and for a split second, he was weightless—his body suspended as if gravity had simply let him go. When he landed, there was a ripple through the crowd—half awe, half relief.
He didn’t smile.
The performance wasn’t about joy. It was about defiance.
He spun, snapped his arms to his chest, then flung them wide as the electric guitar solo began. His footwork turned aggressive, slashing across the rink in daring, tight turns and crossovers. His hair, so carefully slicked back before, had begun to come undone. A strand fell across his brow. He didn’t fix it.
His body burned with effort. Every jump strained his chest, but he pushed through, channelling the pressure into power. The roar of the music hit its peak—“So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?!”—and he launched into a sequence of jumps: a double axel into a triple salchow, fluid, ferocious.
And then—silence.
The music softened, the chaos resolving into piano once more. He slowed, breath heaving, as the melody turned mournful. “Nothing really matters… to me.”
Akio slid across the ice into a final glide, arms lifted, chin raised. He held still at centre ice as the last note echoed into nothing. A second passed. Two.
Then the lights cut out.
The arena was silent for a heartbeat. Then the crowd erupted.
Applause thundered through the stands, cheers echoing like waves crashing against steel. Akio stood alone in the centre, chest rising and falling, eyes closed, face tilted into the invisible sky.
He had given them everything.
“A phenomenal performance from our reigning, but the question remains, has he done enough to secure the prize? Will he seize the crown for a second year in a row? Let’s see what the judges say,” the announcer declared, his voice reverberating through the packed arena.
Akio skated off the ice, breathless and flushed, his chest still rising and falling in uneven bursts. The second his skates left the rink, his coach pulled him into a tight hug.
“You nailed it,” Coach Rios murmured, gripping him by the shoulders. “No matter what happens, you gave them something unforgettable.”
As the applause continued to thunder behind them, Jaxon Brush approached with a lopsided grin and offered a high five. “Damn, I might have to settle for second again.”
Akio let out a winded laugh, tapping Jaxon’s palm. “I guess we’ll see,” he said, crouching to slip the guards over the blades of his skates, his fingers slightly trembling.
The announcer’s voice cut in again, now filled with suspense. “The current leaderboard has Jaxon Brush in first place, with only one skater left to receive his score—Akio Doe. Both competitors have identical difficulty scores. So the question is: did Doe outperform Brush, or fall just short? Brush was only two points away from a perfect score.”
Akio and Jaxon stood shoulder to shoulder, their hands clasped in a firm grip, knuckles white with tension. The screen above the ice cast a soft blue light over their faces as they stared up, hearts pounding, anticipation humming in the air like static.
A beat passed. Then another.
“The judges have made their decision,” the announcer said slowly, stretching each word. “Akio Doe has received… a perfect score.”
For a split second, the arena was silent—then it exploded.
The crowd roared. Cheers, applause, and shouts of disbelief filled the space like a tidal wave. Akio’s eyes went wide. His hands flew to his mouth as his knees buckled beneath him. He dropped to the floor, overcome by joy, disbelief, and sheer emotional exhaustion.
“I—” he gasped. “I can’t believe it.”
“Congrats, man,” Jaxon said, grinning despite the loss, and knelt beside him, patting his back. “You earned it.”
Akio opened his mouth to respond—“Than—”
But his words were cut off by a sudden, sharp cry that tore from his throat.
His body convulsed. Pain ignited in his limbs like fire racing through his veins. His back arched involuntarily, and he let out a ragged scream. The agony twisted through him, his legs buckling under him again—not from joy, but pain.
His arms shook violently. He clutched his chest as if trying to keep it from tearing open, his eyes wide and wild with panic. His scream climbed higher as his limbs seemed to seize, his muscles locking and spasming like they were trying to rip themselves apart.
Hands suddenly were on him, but he couldn’t tell who. The world tilted. Someone shouted, “We need a medic now!” but the words came from underwater.
Black spots bloomed in Akio’s vision like ink in water.
The last thing he heard was the distorted echo of the cheering crowd, still unaware of what was happening just off the ice.
Then everything went dark.