Chapter Text
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BEFORE YOU EVER chose skating, skating had already chosen you.
That’s the curse of legacy.
Most children are given years to experiment with new activities and establish an indentity—like trying soccer, art, piano, or even nothing at all.
Most children are also allowed to be children; have friends, go to school, play video games until their eyes burn, eat shitty processed foods until their teeth ache, watch TV all night.
But you?
You weren’t raised to be most children.
Oh, no. Of course not.
You were raised to be an heir.
The (L/N) family is a dynasty carved out of discipline and obsession. Three generations of Olympic champions, a lineage spoken about with not only pride, but reverence, as if your bloodline itself carries something divine.
Which it probably does.
Because in your family, gold isn’t an achievement.
It’s an inheritance.
Your great-grandfather won Olympic gold in speed skating in 1956, a man whose presence was mythic. Your great-grandmother earned gold in artistic gymnastics, the first woman in Japan to do so, a being of balance and grace who believed perfection was a moral obligation.
Your grandfather claimed judo gold in 1976, a fierce fighter carved from stone. Your grandmother followed with marathon gold in 1984, endurance made flesh, a woman who never understood the definition of quit.
Your father took alpine skiing gold at Nagano in ‘98–charismatic, fearless, a storm embodied on the slopes.
And your mother?
Ice dancing gold, 2002. The original Ice Princess.
Elegant, invincible, severe in her beauty and even more severe in her expectations.
Together, they passed down more than just athletically inclined genes.
They passed down prophecy.
From the moment you could stand, the world didn’t ask what you’d become—only when you’d earn your first gold medal.
When you were born, doctors cheered, “Congratulations, it’s a healthy baby girl!”
Your parents only thought, future gold medalist.
And so, then, it was decided that you’d follow similarly in the footsteps of your mother.
Figure skating.
Women’s singles.
Yes. That it’s it.
They placed you onto the rink, tiny skates strapped to even tinier feet, frigid air stinging your cheeks before you even knew how to pronounce the word cold.
You can remember the first time you fell, a sharp smack against the ice, palms burning, breath stolen from your lungs.
Your mother didn’t scoop you up or console you like most mothers would. Instead, she knelt beside you, her voice soft but unyielding.
“Up. Champions rise on their own.”
So you rose.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until falling stopped being failure and became part of the choreography of becoming extraordinary.
You grew up in rinks rather than playgrounds. There were no lullabies sung to you, only the scrape of blades and toe picks. Childhood friendships were nonexistent—future champions didn’t have time for those as they were far too distracting.
Birthdays were celebrated between practice sessions, candles blown out only when your schedule allowed.
Yet despite the stringency and strictness, you never rebelled. Because even from a young age, you understood your purpose.
The world expects greatness from you, and you were perfectly built to deliver it.
At nine, you landed your first triple jump, stunning an entire coaching staff into silence. At eleven, you became the national novice champion, reporters calling you, “Japan’s new hope.”
At thirteen, you swept the junior international circuit with a precision that bordered on inhuman.
Your name became its own frequency. At fourteen, the world began whispering it and a year later, they began screaming it.
Because at fifteen, you stepped onto Olympic ice representing Team Japan in Beijing.
And not once did you tremble, or waver, or let the enormity of the moment crack your composure.
Neither did you skate like a child, you skated like a girl who from birth was destined to be legendary.
Four quads executed cleanly, footwork so sharp it could draw blood, a final pose held worth the poise of someone who’d lived a hundred lifetimes on the ice already.
When your routine ended, the arena went silent for a heartbeat. Then it erupted.
And for the first time in your life, you felt something warm beneath your ribs—victory.
Oh how sweet it is.
Addicting.
Enthralling.
You had finally fulfilled the prophecy.
A gold medal was placed around your neck. People deeming you the “The Quad Queen”, “Japan’s Ice Princess”, “The Champion Born of Champions”.
The youngest Japanese woman to win gold in Figure Skating. The youngest woman since Tara Lipinski.
Your throne was sculpted in frost and you sat on it alone, perfection the loneliest kingdom.
Now you’re nineteen years old, still undefeated in Japan, the federation’s pride and joy, the face of their Olympic campaign for 2026.
Your life has remained a straight, pristine line.
Until today.
The boardroom of the Japan Skating Federation is unusually tense, executives shuffling papers they don’t need to read; your coach sits beside you with a stiffness usually reserved for judicial hearings.
You fold your hands neatly in your lap, another inherited habit, “Please. Explain this meeting.”
The oldest director clears his throat, “(L/N)-san…as we prepare for the next Olympic cycle, Team Japan must optimize its medal chances. Particularly in the Team Event.”
A flicker of annoyance sparks under your sternum.
The hell does this have to do with you?
“And?”
“We’re assigning you to pairs skating for the coming season.”
Silence swallows the room. Your heartbeat doesn't stutter, no you’re too trained for that, but your voice lowers into ice.
“Why?”
“Because you are our strongest female athlete,” The woman beside him says gently, “And only you have the adaptability and power to transition in time for the Games.”
The words slide off you like snow down a slope. A cold, controlled fury begins to spread within your chest.
“I am the strongest women’s singles skater in Japan,” You explain quietly, “And you want to…move me? Replace me? Undermine my category? Why sabotage your best chance at gold?”
“You are,” The director agrees, “That is precisely why we need you to lift the entire team.”
You inhale once through your nose, knowing that they are right.
Milan Cortina, the 2026 Olympic Games are only a year away, and it would take the best skaters alive to survive a transition like this.
Good thing you are one of them.
And if this is the cost of legacy, you will pay it.
“Very well,” You sigh, “If this is your decision, then tell me my partner.”
There is only one acceptable answer you’re willing to hear.
Geto Suguru.
A respectable, graceful skater—the gentleman prince.
Someone whose lines match yours, discipline that mirrors your own, and quiet strength you’ve admired for years.
You lift your chin, “Tell me it’s Geto.”
The room goes entirely still, causing your stomach to drop. A director finally speaks, voice brittle.
“…Your partner will be Gojo Satoru.”