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Shoma’s cheeks hurt a little from smiling by the time he leaves the mixed zone. He shuts his eyes tightly for a second, trying to release some of the tension in his face. It’s not that he’s been faking a smile. It’s just that he knows how many people are watching, waiting for some sign of bitterness or ill will towards his competitors. Not to mention his fans, eager for assurance that he isn’t too devastated by the result. And it’s easy, because he isn’t devastated. It stings to end the season like this, but sometimes jumps go wrong. It doesn’t have to mean any more than that.
Stephane is waiting just out of range of the reporters, and Shoma can see Deniss and Chris a bit further down the hall, clearly waiting for Shoma to be done before they head back to the hotel together. Shoma lets himself be drawn into a quick hug, even though it’s hard to really relax into it here, surrounded by so many strangers. But Stéphane doesn’t care about that sort of thing. He’s been particularly touchy since the kiss and cry, his hands lingering at Shoma’s back, patting his shoulder and arm, leaning into Shoma’s side to press their shoulders together as they made their way back to the green room.
“Shoma?” Shoma blinks, shaking himself and looking up at Stéphane. He hadn’t realized he’d been so lost in his thoughts. “Ready to go?” He asks, his smile so fond it’s almost too much to look at. Stephane looks like he has half the mind to kiss Shoma right here in the crowded hall, and it’s a bit worrying.
“Yes,” Shoma says, nodding quickly to break the moment. “Go now? Dinner?”
“We’ll have time to stop at the hotel before dinner.” Stephane says as they start to make their way towards Chris and Deniss. They’d made reservations with the rest of Shoma’s and Deniss’s teams, making sure they were late enough to accommodate the medal ceremony and any additional interviews if necessary ...they will have plenty of time to get ready tonight.
Shoma doesn’t notice he’s spaced out again until he feels a hand gently squeeze his arm. He looks up at Stéphane a little sheepishly with a questioning hum “Mm?”
“Your bag?” Stephane asks softly, smiling even though Shoma’s guessing it’s not the first time he’s tried to ask.
After a quick detour to the locker room to retrieve his bag, Shoma rejoins Stéphane, Chris, and Deniss near the rink’s exit. He’d had to stop a few times along the way, pulled in for quick commemorative selfies and congratulations by other skaters. It was particularly hard to extricate himself from Jason’s exuberant energy.
The ride back to the hotel is short, the four of them piling into a taxi. As the shortest, Shoma finds himself sandwiched between Deniss and Stéphane but even so it’s the most comfortable he’s felt all day. Stephane’s hand rests comfortably on his thigh and the bickering that quickly fills the cab is comforting in its familiarity. Shoma lets it wash over him. It’s just another day. The past week has been like one long day and now it’s time to go home.
Shoma is half asleep in the elevator, but that’s no surprise to anyone. He smiles blearily at the familiar teasing from Deniss, Chris shaking his head fondly. Stéphane leads Shoma to their room with an arm around his waist, feeling emboldened now that they’re away from the cameras and crowds.
Shoma showers quickly, the water waking him up a little. He steps out into the steaming bathroom and pulls on his favorite sweatpants and soft oversized sweater. It’s like stepping back into his own skin. When he walks out of the bathroom, Stephane is sitting cross-legged in an armchair by the window, still in his coaching suit. He looks up from his phone as Shoma walks into the room, his face relaxing into a smile. Shoma chews his lip, he knows Stéphane doesn’t pity him, but there’s still a part of him that bristles at the thought of being handled too carefully, of needing to be cheered up like a child.
“How soon?” Shoma asks vaguely, knowing Stéphane will understand his meaning. Instead Stéphane stands, putting his phone in his pocket.
“We don’t have to go,” he says “I know we have plans but…” Stephane runs a hand down Shoma’s arm before catching his hand and giving it a little squeeze. “It’s alright if you don’t want to go out tonight. We can…do like before?”
Shoma doesn’t have to ask what Stephane means by ‘before.’ His mind immediately goes to the World Championships in Montpellier, when the surreal rush of winning a world title had been so overwhelming he’d spent the evening curled up in Stephane’s arms, his face buried in Stephane’s shoulder as though he could block out the rest of the world. But tonight feels nothing like that night. Tonight the nerves and pressures, the crowds and cameras all felt mundane. He’s competed more times than he could count. Today was just another competition.
Shoma’s throat is oddly tight as he looks up at Stéphane. He’s been waiting to see a crack in the composure, the telltale tightness around Stephane’s eyes that signals he’s been straining to keep up appearances. This competition is as much a challenge for Stephane as it is for him in a way—double the emotional load with no physical outlet, no direct control over the outcome. And yet Stéphane looks more relaxed than ever. He lifts a hand to Shoma’s hair, carding through it slowly, gently. Shoma chews his lip. Stephane has been waiting to do this. His relief at being able to touch Shoma freely is so clear in every lingering caress.
Shoma’s voice is barely a whisper as he admits, “I want to make you happy.” It’s what he told the reporters too. Because it’s true. And perhaps because it’s easier to talk about disappointing Stéphane than it is to talk about disappointing himself. When it comes to motivation, it’s all a jumbled mix anyway—scores and medals and fans and crowds and Stephane and self-satisfaction. He’s tried to separate them throughout the season, to get to the heart of why he skates. But they can’t be separated. Still he wanted to make Stéphane so happy. He’s certain of that.
“Shoma…” Before he really knows what’s happening, Shoma feels Stephane’s arms around his shoulders, pulling him in against his chest, a hand coming up to cradle the back of his head like he’s something precious. Shoma lets out a shaky breath that had been caught in his chest. His arms hang loosely around Stephane’s waist.
“I don’t seem happy to you?” Stephane says with gentle playfulness. Shoma feels his voice as much as he hears it, a soothing vibration where their chests are pressed together. “Because of a fall? Because of a number on a screen?” Shoma can’t answer. He knows Stephane is right. It doesn’t help somehow. “I know what you’re capable of, I see it everyday,” —the familiar press of lips to Shoma’s temple, a brush of stubbled jaw—“No score could measure that.”
Stephane’s hand is trailing up and down Shoma’s spine and Shoma lets himself get lost in the sensation for a moment. He’s going to have to pull it together sooner or later, find his words again and assure Stephane he’s not heartbroken over this. But that can wait a few more minutes.
In the end it’s Stephane who speaks first anyway. “Let’s sit, mm?” he says, already drawing Shoma over to the large armchair he’d occupied when Shoma came out for his shower. Stephane sits and after a moment of Shoma blinking down at him in confusion, he pulls Shoma into his lap, laughing brightly. Shoma’s face feels hot and he still can’t find words, but he smiles without thinking as Stephane shifts them around, adjusting Shoma’s legs into a more comfortable position, huffing with exaggerated effort.
Shoma leans in a little, letting his weight settle against Stephane’s chest. Stephane beams and pulls him in for a sweet lingering kiss, his response so eager it makes Shoma feel a bit guilty. He knows he’s been distant since his skate, leaving Stephane to guess at his feelings when all Stephane needs is the smallest effort from him. Stephane is everywhere now, his familiar cologne mixed with the smell of the rink lingering on his clothes, his arms surrounding Shoma, cradling him in the curve of his body.
“You make me happy every day, mon cœur,” Stephane whispers. “I don’t need a medal to show me how beautiful you are.” Shoma blushes at that, not just from Stéphane’s compliments—he’s had to get used to those—but because of the truth underneath. He’s embarrassed to admit it but he’s thought back to the past two world championships, to the wild high of being crowned world champion, Stéphane showering him in praises, glowing with pride and happiness. He knows what he and Stéphane share is so much more than any competition but still…he wanted that feeling again.
Stephane’s thumb brushes over his jaw and Shoma tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. It’s just a competition. Just another competition. The tears well up in his eyes anyway. “I wanted it to be special”
He hadn’t come anywhere near tears all day. What happened happened, and it was easy enough to get swept away in the excitement of the last performances. But suddenly he can’t help but think of what it could’ve been.
Stephane makes soft, soothing noises as Shoma sniffles into his shoulder, his hand slipping under Shoma’s sweater to rub circles into the delicate skin of his hip. Shoma suddenly hates Stephane’s stiff dress shirt and all that it represents. He doesn’t want a second try at his free skate anymore. I just want to go home.
“The reservation is quite soon…” Stephane says reluctantly and Shoma wipes a hand hastily across his cheeks, shifting his position slightly. “We can stay.” Stephane’s arms tighten around him, pulling him back so that his weight is leaning heavily against Stéphane’s chest. “We don’t have to go,” he says. It should make Shoma indignant—he’s an adult, he can handle a dinner, he doesn’t need to be shielded from his responsibilities—but there’s a kind of protective desperation in Stéphane’s voice, muffled as he buries his face in Shoma’s hair. Somehow it feels like Stephane is hiding in their embrace as much as he is, wanting to just keep Shoma small and safe in this little piece of home they bring with them everywhere they go.
“I want to go.” Shoma says simply. A gentle hand on Stéphane’s chest. A brief shared look, watery-eyed but sure. And the decision is made. After a few minutes of gathering themselves and their belongings that have scattered through the hotel room over the past week, they stand in the doorway. Stephane hesitates just a moment before opening the door, and Shoma suddenly pushes up on his tiptoes to kiss Stéphane’s cheek. He misses a little and Stephane is still laughing as they step out into the hall.
They leave the kiss unfinished, hanging in the air between them, a reminder that they’ll be back. That they’ll always come back to this.
There are little moments throughout dinner when Shoma’s mind wanders during a lull in the conversation and the shiny, glittering ‘ what could’ve been ’ flashes before his eyes. But they’re just moments. Mostly it’s good food and loud laughter and Stephane’s slightly tipsy smiles that never fail to melt his heart. When Stephane and (a significantly more drunk and surprisingly giggly) Demi make a long, rambling toast in his honor, he’s too busy laughing to feel a trace of bitterness. It’s a night of letting loose for everyone, and there’s a strange feeling of accomplishment when it’s all over, dragging their heavy limbs back through the hotel lobby at almost midnight. Shoma knows he’ll be half asleep in Gala practice tomorrow, but for now he savors the exhaustion.
That night Stéphane curls up behind him like he does every night, finally out of his formal clothes and wearing his go-to pajama set—he’d bought it specifically because Shoma didn’t like the feeling of his coarser linen nightshirts against his skin. Shoma lets his body sink into the mattress and hugs Stéphane’s arm to his chest. Today was just another competition. It was just another day. But now, sleepy and warm and held in the arms of his favorite person, it’s hard to imagine how that could ever be a disappointment.