Chapter Text
Stéphane wakes with Shoma curled around his arm, hugging it to his chest like a pillow. The trust of it makes his chest ache because Shoma knows now, and it’s all too tempting to just close his eyes again and surrender to the simplicity of Shoma’s closeness. But Stéphane’s body doesn’t understand this newfound peace. There’s a phantom pain sitting between his hips and he doesn’t know if it’s morning sickness or fear that sends him stumbling to the bathroom, kneeling on shaky legs as his heart flutters in his stomach.
Stéphane doesn’t mean to leave the door open…he just does. And when the vomiting subsides long enough to let him catch his breath, he looks up blurry-eyed to see Shoma blinking under the bright fluorescents as he crouches by Stéphane’s side. Stéphane gags again and Shoma rubs his back soothingly, like he always did for those early weeks of summer. It scared Shoma seeing him like this, he hated feeling like their baby was hurting Stéphane. But it was easy to comfort him then—‘It’s natural, chéri, it’s just my body adjusting.’ Stéphane can’t make those promises anymore.
Shoma doesn’t apologize, doesn’t ask nervous questions, desperate to find a way for him to help somehow. And Stéphane doesn’t wave him away. Shoma isn’t going anywhere.
Stéphane’s body feels brittle with cold when he finally staggers back to bed. Shoma lies on his side next to him, watching him silently. Stéphane feels wrung out, a part of him wants Shoma to hold him a little. But the two spheres of his life have started to blend now—he has the softness and comfort of Shoma with him in the bright cold of the bathroom. But now he’s brought some of that fear and harsh painful truth back to the dark softness of their bed.
“You want baby?” Shoma asks softly. Stéphane feels his throat tighten as he nods.
“It…frightened me, I wasn’t ready…” he hasn’t even let himself think the word baby. It feels too far away from what this is, from how it will end. “But yes…I want.” Stéphane wants so desperately it feels like it will swallow him.
Shoma is silent as Stéphane stares up at the ceiling and tries to think of anything but baby.
When Shoma finally speaks, his voice is thoughtful and even. “I not go to Nationals.” A faint kind of panic flares in Stéphane’s chest at that. He was afraid of this—Shoma throwing away his career for a shadow of a dream.
“I take you home,” Shoma says simply. “We go see doctor. Keep you safe.” There’s longing in his voice and Stéphane longs for it too. To stop being Shoma’s coach for a little and just let Shoma watch over him. He wants the mountains around him suddenly, aches for the silence of snow.
“We go home now.” Shoma says. It’s not a question, but Shoma is begging nonetheless. Stéphane already knows he can’t agree. There’s Koshiro still, even if Shoma chooses to withdraw. Stéphane wouldn’t be able to rest, not really, knowing he’d left Koshiro to the wolves.
But perhaps he can pretend, just for today. Shoma’s going to take him home. “Okay.” Stéphane’s voice is small, and Shoma looks at him like he wants to carry him back to Switzerland in his arms.
Morning light slowly fills the room and Shoma doesn’t want to go to gala practice, doesn’t want to leave Stéphane. Stéphane doesn’t really want him to either, but they can’t hide away forever. In the end they compromise. Stéphane sits at the side of the rink and wraps his thick mizuno coat around him like a blanket while Shoma fumbles his way through group practice. He seems barely able to focus, glancing over to Stéphane whenever he isn’t skating, and sometimes when he is too. There’s really no need for a coach at gala practice, but Stéphane ignores the curious glances—let people think what they will.
The gala itself is long, the noise and crowds exhausting. Stéphane can’t wait to leave this rink behind and never return. But at least now he isn’t part of the spectacle. He can hide under low exhibition lights and watch Shoma stir the crowd into a frenzy before melting back into sheepish waving as soon as the applause starts.
Shoma’s eyes are distant as he circles the rink with the rest of the skaters, roaming the stands like he’s hoping to find Stéphane among the sea of faces.
They make an appearance at the closing banquet that night, Stpehane insisting their absence would be especially noticeable at an event with so few skaters. Shoma sends him a little panicked glance every time he’s carried away from Stéphane’s side by a conversation or request for a selfie. Finally Stéphane has mercy on them both and asks if Shoma is ready to go. “Please,” Shoma begs. As soon as they’re in the semi-privacy of the hotel hallways Shoma takes his hand. Stéphane allows it, just this once.
Stéphane doesn’t realize how exhausted he is until he feels his body sink into the mattress. But he can’t sleep yet. Their flight to Japan leaves tomorrow afternoon, and Stéphane isn’t canceling it.
He turns his head to the side, to where Shoma is curled up facing him. Stéphane smiles gently in apology. “I can’t go back to Champéry now.”
“I know.” Shoma whispers, chewing his lower lip furiously. Shoma always knows. Always sees right through him. But maybe Shoma had wanted a day of pretending too.
“You can, though.” Stéphane offers. Shoma was prepared to miss nationals and Shoma doesn’t say such things flippantly.
“Stay with you.” Shoma says firmly. “If you coach at Nationals, I will skate.” Stéphane feels like he should laugh. Only Shoma would manage to make that argument make sense. He’s coaching, it should be him supporting Shoma not the other way around.
Stéphane smiles a little. “Together then.” Shoma repeats the word under his breath, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth, how it sounds in his voice. He doesn’t meet Stéphane’s eyes and his fingers curl in the blankets.
Stéphane rolls onto his side and lays a hand on Shoma"s shoulder, smooths up and down his arm a little. It isn’t much, but it’s a relief to touch him without thinking, free of that guilt-tinged sense of obligation. Stéphane smiles to himself, feeling Shoma sidle a little closer to him, relaxing under his hand.
Shoma is just so happy to be touched and loved. It’s like a gift, being able to take care of Shoma in this way. Maybe it can be enough.
“Will you…tell me?” Stéphane’s mind has been drifting between thoughts and dreams and it takes a moment to find Shoma again.
“Tell you?” Stéphane echoes. There’s just enough glow from the city lights outside to make out Shoma’s wide dark eyes.
“When you are…sick or scared.” Shoma’s voice breaks a little and Stéphane’s hand tightens over Shoma’s arm. “Tell me please?” There’s something small and fearful in Shoma’s voice, and Stéphane wants to shelter it in his arms. But Stéphane can’t shield Shoma from himself—his own body, his own lies, his own pain. He’s tried and Shoma is hurting still, hands twisting in the sheets. His face twitches oddly as he tries to hide that he’s on the verge of tears.
“Shoma…” Stéphane wants to promise him, he wants to but…
“I want to know.” Shoma’s eyes shine in the faint light, “Always. Everything.” Stéphane opens his mouth, wanting to give some kind of assurance, some excuse maybe, but his words die in the face of Shoma’s devotion. “I want to know…” Shoma’s voice is heavy with sorrow, steady somehow, like the depth of it makes him unshakable. “If we lose baby.” Stéphane is gripping his arm now, too tight, his whole body rigid.
“Shoma…I…” he can’t, he can’t do this again, he won’t survive it.
“You don’t need to…protect me.” Shoma’s voice is kind, he’s kind. But Stéphane hears the truth Shoma is smoothing over for his sake—Stéphane can’t protect him. He’s already failed. Stéphane’s hand trembles where it slipped from Shoma’s elbow, falling useless on the sheets between them. “I…I want to hurt with you.” Shoma is begging him, so open somehow, in all the ways that Stéphane can’t seem to be, and yet his body is a helpless huddle of tense limbs. My love…my little love… Stéphane doesn’t know how to ask for this, but he has to ask.
“Touch me.” Stéphane can barely hear his own voice over the blood rushing in his ears.
“Yes?” He can hear the disbelief in Shoma’s breathless gasp.
“Touch me…everywhere.” Shoma’s hands unfurl like flower buds. He shifts closer, reaching for him with shining eyes and shaking fingers. Stéphane closes his eyes as warm palms settle on his face, cupping his cheeks, brushing through his hair. Shoma’s thumbs smooth over the bags under his eyes and Stéphane knows how he looks, old and sickly. But Shoma just whispers “Stéphane” and somehow it feels like Shoma is telling him he’s beautiful.
Shoma’s hands caress down his neck, and Stéphane tries to relax his tense shoulders as Shoma traces his collarbones. His arms lie useless by his sides like rubber, unable to hold Shoma. Shoma brushes against his hand as he presses close and Stéphane can only twist his fingers into Shoma’s nightshirt.
Shoma’s hands are gentle, touching him with a curiosity and wonder that leave him trembling. They find the ache in his back, the weakness in his arms. Shoma lays his head on Stéphane’s chest and finds his racing frantic heart, beating for two, beating in vain.
And then Shoma’s hand caresses down his waist, brushes over the slight softness between his hips and Stéphane’s whole body tenses. “Stéphane?” Shoma sounds scared, and Stéphane can only feel the lightest touch against his stomach through his nightshirt. “Bad when I touch here?” Shoma’s voice is choked, and Stéphane doesn’t know what to tell him.
“Don’t go,” he whispers. It hurts, it terrifies him but it’s real. He wants it to feel real. Shoma slowly lifts Stéphane’s nightshirt, and carefully places his hand between Stéphane’s hips. There’s no bump of course, nothing to feel—there never had been. But Shoma had never cared about that. He’d been fascinated with Stéphane’s belly as soon as they got the first test, he could hardly keep his hands off of it. And then it was over, his body unchanged, nothing to lose. And Shoma touched him anywhere but there.
Stéphane’s chest shudders with barely contained sobs, his breath coming in sudden uneven gasps. He feels the weight of Shoma’s head lift from his ribs, feels the soft, smooth skin of Shoma’s face nuzzling his damp cheek. Stéphane cries and Shoma presses feather-light kisses to his jaw and cradles his belly with a small warm hand.
When Stéphane finally opens his eyes, Shoma"s face looks older somehow. He pulls away for a moment, shifting on the bed, bending to press his lips to the skin just under Stéphane’s navel. He strokes Stéphane’s waist gently as his emotions overcome him again.
“Come here,” Stéphane begs and Shoma comes back to him, laying half beside him and half over him. There’s fear in his eyes, but he’s not looking to Stéphane, not seeking assurance. Shoma is a man. He was ready to be a father, just as eager as Stéphane in his quiet way. And he’s ready again, even in the shadow of the loss that almost broke them. He’s beautiful.
Stéphane reaches up for him, and it’s like being kissed for the first time. Shoma’s hand presses against his chest, Stéphane’s cups the nape of his neck. They’re both breathless when they pull away, and Shoma leans their foreheads together like he can’t bear a moment of separation.
“I miss you.” Shoma’s quiet murmur is small and sad, but his eyes are wide with hope. Stéphane kisses him again, Shoma breathes him in like air.
Stéphane curls into Shoma as they fall asleep, Shoma’s arms growing heavy around him as his heart slows in sleep. Stéphane tries not to think of their flight tomorrow, of the bright and brutal arena waiting for them, of the strange city that surrounds them now, its lights and noises held at bay by a thin pane of glass. He closes his eyes and nestles his head under Shoma’s chin. Shoma hugs him a little tighter in his sleep.
Stéphane doesn’t want to sleep. When daylight reaches them, they will need to pack and say goodbyes and make plans. They will become who they need to be, they will go where their lives take them. It feels impossible to wake up and be Stéphane Lambiel again. He hasn’t been that person in a long time, but suddenly he doesn’t know how to keep pretending anymore.
Maybe you’re allowed to change, a quiet voice suggests, maybe Shoma has changed too. Stéphane still feels small and fragile as he burrows into Shoma’s steadily breathing chest, like a lost child in a world that is too big for him, that asks too much.
But Stéphane knows Shoma will find him again. His gentle hands will find every change, every secret shameful part of him, the parts they’ve both been too afraid to touch. Shoma’s touch is forgiveness and grief and love, and Shoma loves like his heart is unbreakable.