(You are Mikage Reo, a figure skater)
Nagi Seishiro lived and breathed the cold.
As a forward on his university’s hockey team, winter wasn’t merely a season—it was a battleground. With the regional tournament a week away, he headed to their usual ice stadium that afternoon, duffel over one shoulder, breath misting in quiet anticipation.
He expected the familiar hush of practice.
Instead, the stadium roared.
Crowds streamed through the entrance, scarves fluttering, cameras flashing, excitement thick as snowfall before a storm. Seishiro halted, pale brows knitting.
Strange.
Had he missed something?
With a quiet sigh, he checked the team’s group chat. There it was—an announcement from hours ago. Practice had been moved. Postponed. The rink was booked for a figure skating competition.
He stared at the screen, then exhaled.
Brilliant. He hadn’t checked his messages that morning.
Turning to leave, he adjusted his bag—only for a familiar voice to cut through the noise.
“Nagi?”
He glanced back. “Kunigami.”
The ginger-haired forward’s sharp gaze swept over Seishiro’s practice gear before he clicked his tongue. “Don’t tell me you didn’t read the group chat.”
Seishiro rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Unbelievable.” Kunigami snorted. “And you? Why’re you here?”
A grin spread across his face, bright and proud. “My boyfriend’s competing today. I’m here to watch.”
Seishiro hummed. “That’s good.”
Before he could escape, an arm slung around his shoulders.
“Come watch with me. You need culture.”
“I really don’t—”
Too late.
Kunigami dragged him inside.
Thirty minutes later, Seishiro regretted not resisting harder.
This is boring.
The thought looped lazily as skater after skater traced delicate patterns across the ice. Elegant, sure. Technically impressive, perhaps. But it lacked the grit of collision, the thrill of impact.
Beside him, Kunigami vibrated with anticipation.
When Chigiri stepped onto the rink—long crimson hair catching the light like a blade of fire—Kunigami nearly leapt from his seat, filming every second, devotion softening his gaze.
The performance ended in thunderous applause.
Another name was announced. A hush fell as the next skater entered.
Purple hair tied back with a black ribbon fluttering at his nape. A fitted dark costume dusted with faint silver traced his frame. The lights found him instantly, as if drawn.
The camera captured his face on the grand screen.
A small, knowing smile curved his lips. Violet eyes gleamed with quiet authority, as though the ice belonged to him.
“Next, please welcome Mikage Reo!”
Seishiro braced himself for another tedious routine.
He was wrong.
From the first glide, something shifted.
Reo didn’t simply skate—he commanded. Each stroke carved poetry into the ice. His turns were seamless, posture effortlessly regal. When he launched into an axel, the crowd gasped—but Seishiro barely heard them.
He was watching the arc of Reo’s body in the air. The precision. The audacity. The certainty in every landing.
It wasn’t soft.
It was breathtaking.
Without realizing it, Seishiro leaned forward, fingers tightening against his knees. His thoughts had gone silent—completely, dangerously silent.
When Reo landed his final lutz flawlessly, the stadium erupted.
Only then did sound rush back.
Applause. Cheers. Whistles.
Kunigami clapped beside him. “Reo’s always incredible. Did you see that, Nagi?”
Seishiro didn’t answer at once. His gaze followed the purple-haired skater as he glided off the rink, ribbon swaying like the final stroke of a signature.
“…Yeah,” he murmured, eyes trailing after him until he vanished. “That was something else.”
Mikage Reo.
Maybe he could “accidentally” run into the figure skating team sometime. For the first time that day, Seishiro felt genuinely motivated to plan something.