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Chapter Text

In class, Minato was meticulously writing down his answers, each stroke of the pencil precise and intentional. He knew the gravity of these tests—every answer counted, every decision carried weight. As the seconds ticked by, the bell finally rang, jolting him from his deep concentration. With a quiet sigh, he leaned back, tension unwinding from his shoulders, replaced by an undeniable relief.

He packed his belongings methodically, the sounds of Yukari and Junpei’s laughter and chatter filling the room, a familiar backdrop. Yet, Minato felt strangely distant from it, as if viewing the scene from behind a glass wall. He stood quietly, nodding politely to his friends, slipping through the classroom door, alone, into the hallway.

As he walked, he gently tugged the headphones of his trusty MP3 player into his ears, music becoming his sanctuary once again. Melodic strains created an invisible barrier between him and the bustling students, a protective shield allowing him the space to delve into his thoughts.

Descending the stairs, he moved effortlessly through the crowded corridors, his mind drifting. At the ground floor, he turned left, sunlight streaming gently through the windows, washing over him like a warm, comforting tide. Soon, he stepped outside, the freshness of the afternoon air brushing against his skin.

His journey home by train was almost rhythmic, predictable in its monotony. Gazing through the window, he saw his reflection staring back, thoughtful and introspective. But then, his heart skipped, and for a fleeting moment, he saw her, Mitsuru. The image was vivid, a graceful silhouette etched into his consciousness. He shook his head softly, willing the vision away, but it lingered stubbornly.

Months had passed since Mitsuru had first stepped into his life, yet her impact seemed to deepen daily. Her presence so elegant, dignified, compassionate, and fiercely intelligent, resonated deeply within him. Each conversation, every shared study session or quiet moment spent reading books had drawn him inexorably closer to her. Yet, despite these numerous interactions, he still found himself unable to cross that invisible threshold, fearful of jeopardizing their delicate balance.

Last night had changed something fundamentally. Witnessing Mitsuru's graceful strength, her breathtaking theurgy, had been a revelation. The way she glided effortlessly over ice, an ethereal being wrapped in steely resolve and unmatched beauty, had left him stunned and breathless. A quiet admiration had now blossomed, undeniably, into something more profound.

The train halted smoothly at the station, jarring him gently from his thoughts. With an exhale of determination, he stepped onto the platform, beginning the familiar yet somehow endless walk toward the dormitory. His heartbeat quickened with each step, anticipation twisting gently within him.

Reaching the dorm, he opened the door slowly, stepping inside to a comforting stillness. The common room was empty except for Mitsuru. She sat poised, absorbed deeply in the pages of her book, her fiery crimson hair cascading softly around her face.

As he entered, Mitsuru glanced up, the warmth in her eyes bringing his heart to a sudden halt. "Oh, it's you. Welcome back," she greeted softly, her voice effortlessly graceful yet carrying subtle warmth. "How was the test?"

Minato felt a nervous flutter deep in his chest, but he quickly suppressed it, mustering a composed smile. Walking slowly across the room, he settled onto the couch with a soft exhale. "The testing was good," he answered, his tone quiet and measured. "Well, at least day one went well."

Mitsuru chuckled gently, a sound that seemed to dance elegantly through the air. "I'm sure you'll be fine for the rest of them. After all, your grades have always been excellent." Her words held an underlying confidence in him, and Minato felt his pulse quicken at the subtle praise.

Eager to shift the spotlight from himself, Minato glanced curiously at the book in her hands. "What are you reading?"

A faint blush colored Mitsuru's cheeks, though her expression remained poised and dignified. "Oh, this? It's called Forever His," she admitted with a hint of embarrassment slipping through her usually firm exterior. "A French romance novel. My maid recommended it, actually."

Minato raised his eyebrows in surprise. Mitsuru Kirijo, the refined heiress of the Kirijo Group, engrossed in a romantic novel recommended by a maid? His curiosity was piqued. "What maid would suggest a book like that?" he asked, a gentle amusement creeping into his voice.

Rolling her eyes gracefully, Mitsuru let out an exasperated yet affectionate sigh. "The queen of teasing," she said with an amused shake of her head. "Juliette—she’s practically a sister to me. Even if she enjoys tormenting me with these recommendations, I must admit," she continued softly, "despite being somewhat old-fashioned, I’ve found myself enjoying the story quite a bit."

Minato's heart pounded faster as he watched Mitsuru speak, her crimson hair falling elegantly over her shoulder, illuminated gently by the fading sunlight filtering through the windows. Her small, delicate smile stirred something deep within him, an emotion he could no longer deny.

Summoning every ounce of courage he possessed, Minato spoke, his voice slightly hesitant. "Mitsuru… I, uh… I have a question."

Mitsuru glanced at him thoughtfully, her intelligent gaze warm yet subtly penetrating. "Of course. What is it?"

This was it. The moment. He was the Fool, the bearer of the Wild Card, able to summon courage and strength from deep within his heart. Now, he would finally ask Mitsuru, the elegant Ice Empress herself, out on a date.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he parted his lips to speak. "Have you ever done ice skating?" The moment the words left his mouth, Minato felt his heart sink. Of all the things he had planned to say, why had ice skating slipped out? His mind raced, realizing he had unwittingly drawn upon memories of their last mission, recalling vividly the breathtaking image of Mitsuru's graceful movements and powerful ice spells.

For a brief moment, Mitsuru merely blinked, caught completely off guard by the unexpected question. A delicate blush blossomed across her cheeks, and she turned her head slightly, hiding behind a curtain of crimson hair. Minato watched in confusion, wondering why such a simple inquiry had elicited such a reaction from the normally composed woman.

Regaining her composure quickly, Mitsuru met his gaze, a gentle vulnerability shimmering in her usually stoic eyes. "I have, actually," she admitted quietly, her voice filled with tender nostalgia. "Though it was quite some time ago—when I was only thirteen."

Curiosity overtook Minato's embarrassment, and he listened intently as Mitsuru continued, her voice growing softer and warmer. "My mother adored ice skating. It was one of the few passions she allowed herself. I wanted to impress her, so I took it up myself." Mitsuru paused, smiling softly at the memories. "Juliette, naturally, played her part. She challenged me to improve, and well…" Mitsuru rolled her eyes affectionately. "I almost broke my hand proving I could master the ice. But I did improve greatly."

Minato's lips curled into a soft smile at the vivid imagery Mitsuru painted. "Did it come with a cost?" he asked gently, sensing more to her story.

Mitsuru sighed dramatically, though her eyes sparkled with affectionate annoyance. "Indeed, the cost was receiving the nickname 'Ice Empress.' A title Juliette bestowed upon me herself." Mitsuru muttered quietly in French, shaking her head with affectionate frustration. "Juliette est vraiment incorrigible." (Juliette truly is incorrigible)

Minato couldn't help but smile, entranced by this intimate glimpse into Mitsuru's personal life. "I never imagined you as an ice skater," he admitted honestly, his voice warm with admiration. "Although… that nickname does suit you perfectly."

Mitsuru raised a curious eyebrow, her expression softening further. "And may I ask why you've suddenly become so interested in my skating?"

Realizing this was his chance at redemption, Minato cleared his throat softly, mentally bracing himself. "I… I'd like you to teach me," he confessed quickly, inwardly cringing at his awkward phrasing. He was certain he had stumbled again.

Mitsuru stared thoughtfully, her hand gently resting against her chin, examining Minato's earnest face. Her eyes, deep and clear, held his gaze intently for several heartbeats. Finally, a gentle smile curled her lips upward. "Very well," she said softly, amusement and warmth mixing delicately in her tone. "Tonight, we'll go ice skating."

Minato blinked, stunned into momentary silence. He had succeeded? Had she truly accepted? "Tonight?" he echoed hesitantly.

"Yes," Mitsuru confirmed confidently, standing gracefully from her seat and closing the book gently. "Let's leave at seven. It should be quieter then."

Minato could only watch her in silent wonder as she moved gracefully toward the staircase, humming softly to herself. He tried desperately to process what had just happened. Was this an actual date, or was he misinterpreting it completely? Before he could fully gather his thoughts, Mitsuru glanced back over her shoulder at him, a gentle, knowing smile gracing her lips.

She looked down at the book she held, chuckling softly, the sound like music to his ears. Her voice, gentle and yet holding a promise of something deeper, lingered beautifully in the quiet dormitory. "Forever his."

Minato felt his heart nearly burst within his chest. Whatever uncertainties or fears he carried were gently soothed by the warmth of her gaze, her smile, and her quiet, teasing laughter. Tonight, he knew, would change everything.... for good or bad.

Chapter Text

An hour had slipped by since Mitsuru had agreed, her voice echoing still in the back of Minato’s mind—soft, promising, unexpectedly gentle. He hadn’t intended for this to turn into skating lessons. No, that hadn’t been the plan at all. He had fumbled, stumbled, and somehow, in his awkwardness, carved out a space for them to spend the evening together. Not a real date, not yet, but something close enough for his fragile hopes. Maybe next time, he promised himself. Next time, he’d ask her properly.

Now, sitting at the edge of his bed in his casual clothes-faded jeans, a dark hoodie, his school bag slung over one shoulder—Minato felt the first prickling needles of anxiety at the back of his mind. He went through his bag, wallet, train pass, a spare pencil, and of course his old MP3 player. But as his fingers skimmed the bottom, searching for something he hadn’t packed, reality hit him like a cold dash of water-he didn’t own any ice skating shoes.

He stilled, heart skipping. Mitsuru would undoubtedly have her own-maybe something elegant, pristine, perfectly suited to her. He, meanwhile, was at risk of shuffling onto the ice in borrowed, ill-fitting rentals. The image twisted in his chest, equal parts dread and embarrassment. Mitsuru, ever poised and dignified, would glide gracefully, and he’d fumble behind her like a lost child. No. That wouldn’t do. He needed to fix this.

He checked the time and he had one hour left before they’d leave. Enough for a quick errand if he moved fast.

Shouldering his bag, Minato slipped out of his room, the quiet hush of the dorm settling behind him. The late afternoon sunlight cast honey-gold bars through the hallway windows, warming the polished floors. Somewhere downstairs, the faint clatter of a TV and distant voices drifted from the common room-Junpei, probably, maybe Yukari, and the occasional deadpan remark from Akihiko.

Minato moved quietly, footsteps muffled, mind racing with quiet determination. He needed ice skates. Paulownia Mall would be his best bet. It wasn’t far, just a short walk away, and the shops there tended to stay open later for students.

Outside, the air was crisp and cool, brushing his cheeks as he walked. The city was painted in the hues of sunset: rose and lavender clouds streaked the sky, streaks of fading sunlight glittered against glass, and the first hints of evening neon flickered to life along the street. Minato moved with purpose, hands deep in his pockets, MP3 player clicking on with a familiar press of his thumb. Music filled his ears-a slow, bittersweet melody that seemed to match his pace, the gentle ache in his chest, the hope and nerves fluttering within.

He walked, each step measured, almost meditative. Familiar faces appeared and faded along the route-schoolmates and acquaintances, all weaving through the tapestry of afterschool life. Some called his name, curiosity flickering in their eyes. Minato, in his quiet way, offered only a small shake of his head, a muted “not now,” before moving on. His thoughts were elsewhere, too preoccupied with the odd urgency that thrummed in his veins.

He descended the stairs to the subway platform, the familiar jingle of the ticket gate, the low hum of the crowd. As he boarded the train toward Port Island Station, he pressed himself to the window, watching the city slip by in flashes of steel, light, and color. His reflection stared back at him, pale and contemplative, lost in thought beneath the low brim of his hoodie. Every few seconds, the cityscape was replaced by darkness as the train entered another tunnel, and in those moments, he felt like he was floating in between worlds-caught in that liminal space between anxiety and hope.

Arriving at his stop, Minato slipped off the train and moved swiftly through the concourse, weaving between salarymen, students, and couples laughing in the twilight. Each step quickened as the sky deepened to indigo, dusk pressing down like a velvet curtain. He crossed the pedestrian bridge, neon signs beginning to glow below, the familiar shapes of Paulownia Mall rising before him.

The mall’s doors opened with a soft pneumatic hiss, admitting him into the cool, polished interior. The bustle inside was strangely comforting—students comparing test notes, couples window-shopping, the faint aroma of coffee and distant music blending into a background hum. Minato’s gaze flickered instinctively to the left the police station.

He hesitated just outside the sliding doors, feeling the oddness of his mission. The police station was usually the place he visited for armor, the heavy boots and weapons Kurosawa sometimes managed to supply. The idea of asking for ice skates seemed absurd even to himself—but he had no time for embarrassment. Mitsuru’s elegant face, the memory of her laugh and the promise in her eyes, burned away his doubts.

Pushing inside, Minato was greeted by the familiar, slightly musty air and the steady presence of Officer Kurosawa. The older man sat behind the counter, reading a dog-eared magazine. He looked up, surprise flickering briefly over his features as he recognized Minato.

“Hello there, son. Didn’t expect you tonight. I don’t have anything new in stock, if that’s what you’re after,” Kurosawa said, voice a gentle rumble.

Minato hesitated, shuffling his feet, before meeting the officer’s gaze. “Actually, I’m not here for armor or weapons,” he said quietly, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. “I was wondering… do you happen to have any ice skating boots?”

Silence followed. Kurosawa simply stared at him, utterly nonplussed. The air hung between them, awkward and heavy, as if the entire room had stopped breathing. Minato kept his expression blank, refusing to give in to the urge to shrink away.

At last, Kurosawa scratched his chin, his gaze narrowing as though trying to read some hidden meaning in Minato’s face. “Ice skates, huh? Can’t say I get that request much.” For a long moment, he said nothing, then with a shrug, he disappeared into the back room.

Minato stood alone at the counter, the seconds dragging. He imagined Kurosawa rummaging through boxes and crates, cursing quietly under his breath. The absurdity of the situation finally caught up to him, and he felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Was this really happening? Was he, Minato Arisato—the quietest young man in class, the Fool, the Wild Card—really going through all this just to impress someone? Even as the embarrassment burned quietly in his chest, it was somehow… wonderful.

Kurosawa finally returned, a battered box in his hands. He set it on the counter and flipped the lid open, revealing a pair of striking red ice skating boots. They looked almost new, polished and gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light.

“Guess you’re in luck tonight, young man,” Kurosawa said, a wry smile barely tugging at his lips. “Someone left these behind last year and never came back. They look about your size.”

Minato’s relief was immediate, sharp and bright. He pulled out his wallet and paid, bowing in quiet gratitude. The boots were surprisingly light in his hands, their leather warm and smooth beneath his fingertips. He stepped out of the police station into the pulsing neon glow of the mall, the weight of his anxiety easing just a little.

He was so preoccupied-staring at the boots, imagining the evening ahead-that he nearly collided with someone rounding the corner. The impact jolted him, and he looked up to find himself staring into the sharp, guarded eyes of Shinjiro.

“Watch where you’re—” Shinjiro started, gruff as ever, but the words caught in his throat when he recognized Minato. His expression shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he slipped his hands into the deep pockets of his coat, hiding any hint of embarrassment. “…Ah. Sorry,” Shinjiro said, voice lower, almost awkward. “Didn’t expect you to be out here.”

Minato shook his head slightly, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “It’s fine. Sorry—I wasn’t paying attention.”

For a second, silence stretched between them. The mall’s fluorescent lights glinted off the box Minato still held tightly, the red boots half-visible. Shinjiro’s gaze dropped, sharp and curious, settling on them. “…What’s with the boots?” Shinjiro asked, tilting his head just so, one eyebrow arching in mild suspicion.

Minato hesitated, clutching the box a little tighter. “Oh. Just… a collection,” he murmured, trying to keep his tone neutral. But even he knew it sounded forced.

Shinjiro wasn’t fooled for a second. He stared, deadpan, for a beat longer than necessary. Then-his mouth quirked up at one corner, a rare, crooked smirk breaking through his usual stoic mask.

“Yeah?” Shinjiro drawled, voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “You collect ice skates now? Or are you just tryin’ to impress the Ice Empress herself?”

Minato froze. The nickname lingered in the air-intimate, familiar, something Minato had only just learned. Heat flushed in his cheeks, and he looked down, wordless. The truth sat between them, raw and exposed. He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

But Shinjiro just leaned back a little, gaze softening, and for a moment, there was something almost gentle in his demeanor. “Didn’t expect her to talk about that part of herself,” he admitted, quietly. “She usually keeps her cards close. Guess you’re special, huh?”

Minato blinked, startled. “How long have you known?” he managed, voice barely above a whisper.

A short, low chuckle escaped Shinjiro, more breath than sound. He glanced away, shoulders shrugging as if the memory amused and annoyed him at once. “It was a while back. Wasn’t even tryin’ to find out. I remember-there was this French lady yelling so loud in the lounge I thought I was gonna lose it. Figured it was some tourist who got lost, but no. It was Mitsuru’s maid. She was doin’ this… pep talk, I guess? Whole speech, hands waving, accent thick as hell.” He shook his head, lips quirking with grudging fondness.

“And then,” Shinjiro went on, eyes narrowing in recollection, “I see Mitsuru, all dressed up with this ridiculous fur jacket—which fits a rich woman like her. They were headin’ out to the rink. I almost turned back around, but that maid saw me and dragged me in, askin’ if I’d ever skated. Like hell I have.” He paused, then snorted softly. “Didn’t expect Mitsuru to be good at it. Didn’t expect her to be... good. Never seen anyone move like that. I didn’t tell anyone. Figured she deserved to keep it private.”

Minato listened, eyes wide, absorbing the story. There was a wistfulness in Shinjiro’s tone—almost a kind of protectiveness that Minato hadn’t expected. "…So you’ve known all this time,” Minato murmured.

“Yeah. Only one who did, I think.” Shinjiro shrugged, as if the secret was a small, fragile thing he’d been entrusted with. “’Til now, anyway.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken things. Minato felt the old ache of inadequacy, the nerves, the fear that maybe he’d stepped somewhere he shouldn’t. But Shinjiro surprised him, stepping a bit closer, lowering his voice with an almost conspiratorial gentleness.

“I’m glad I ran into you tonight,” Shinjiro said, eyes direct and unguarded for once. “I know what you’re doin’. And… look, I may not be an expert on all that… stuff.” He jerked his chin in a vague circle, the world of romance and awkward feelings. “But if Mitsuru let you in, it means something. Don’t mess it up.”

Minato went quiet again, struggling for words. Was it a real date? Was it just lessons? He wanted to ask, to reach for clarity, but his thoughts swirled too fast, fragile as glass.

Sensing his hesitation, Shinjiro gave a small, wry smirk, backing away a step. “Well, good luck if it is a real date. And if it’s not, just enjoy yourself.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, then turned, melting back into the flow of mall traffic.

Minato stood for a moment, the world blurring and humming around him. He stared at the boots-bright, crimson, unreal and wondered just how much more Shinjiro knew and how much the others knew of Minato falling for Mitsuru.

But for now, that didn’t matter. He had a promise to keep, and a heart pounding so loudly he thought it might break free. He took a steadying breath, gathered his things, and slipped back into the shifting, golden-lit streets, heading home.

The world felt different-lighter, sharper, colored by the strange vulnerability of Shinjiro’s words and the anticipation burning in his chest. The city lights winked on around him, casting ripples of color over glass and pavement. Minato walked, feeling the weight of the skates in his hand and the warmth of possibility in his heart.

When he reached the dorm, the sun had vanished. The sky was deep, endless blue, and the windows glowed with life. He paused at the door, fingers resting on the handle, trying to steady the wild thrum of nerves and hope inside him. Tonight, everything might change.

Chapter Text

On his way back to the dorm, Minato kept glancing down at the red ice skates nestled securely beneath his arm. There was a strange thrill in the knowledge that, for once, he had everything in place. No missing puzzle pieces, no looming uncertainty-just a simple plan, a chance to share something real with Mitsuru. He could almost see the evening playing out in his mind, Mitsuru gliding ahead of him, her crimson hair catching the light, her eyes like molten garnets when she laughed or smiled his way.

Even now, the thought made his chest ache-an ache that was half longing, half hope. Mitsuru, who wore dignity like a second skin and grace as effortlessly as breath, had always seemed a little untouchable, like the first snowfall on a silent morning. And yet, over the months, he’d found a way closer—not by force or cleverness, but by simply being there, listening, sharing long hours over textbooks, or quietly holding the line beside her during those dark hour missions.

Every detail about her-the steady cadence of her voice, the way she’d tilt her head when deep in thought, the rare but dazzling warmth of her smile-felt burned into his memory. She was, Minato thought with a quiet, almost painful clarity, everything he’d never known he wanted. The world felt a little steadier, even in chaos, just knowing Mitsuru was somewhere close by.

He remembered the first time he’d met her, how she’d held herself so still, so formal. The careful composure had seemed almost unbreakable-until he’d seen her smile, genuinely, unexpectedly, at a joke Junpei had made. In that moment, Minato had known. Underneath the layers of responsibility and legacy, Mitsuru was beautiful, not just in the way the world saw, but in the way that mattered: intelligent, kind, quietly vulnerable, utterly true.

He tried to gather his thoughts as he walked, but they kept drifting back to her... her laughter, the faint scent of her perfume, the careful advice she’d offered on late nights before exams. He wanted, so badly, to show her the best of himself tonight. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d get to see a side of her that she rarely shared. Maybe, just maybe, she’d see something in him, too.

By the time Minato finally returned to the dorm, twilight had surrendered to night. The building’s windows glowed with soft, amber light, casting welcoming shapes onto the pavement. Minato paused for a moment outside the door, the box of skates pressed tight to his side, nerves fluttering in his chest. He exhaled slowly and stepped inside.

The quiet hum of the TV in the lounge and the distant voices told him the others were somewhere nearby, but as he slipped out of his shoes and moved further in, a voice stopped him. “Where you been?”

Akihiko stood in the hallway, hands wrapped in white tape, gaze fixed not on Minato but on his battered boxing gloves. There was something casual, almost offhand in the way he asked, but Minato knew Akihiko well enough to sense the curiosity just beneath.

He tried to keep his voice even, the way Mitsuru might. “I was busy,” Minato replied, tucking the skates under his arm more securely and heading for the stairs before Akihiko could press further. His heart was still racing slightly from Shinjiro's knowing words, the unusual vulnerability that had passed briefly between them still echoing through his thoughts. But he pressed forward, ascending the stairs toward the men's floor, seeking the familiar quiet to gather himself before tonight’s outing.

However, just as he reached the hallway leading to his room, a curious sound filtered down from above—a voice he had never heard before, distinctly feminine and resonating with an accent that was at once elegant and playfully teasing. Minato paused mid-step, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He glanced up at the ceiling, faint voices drifting softly from the floor above.

Minato hesitated, glancing briefly toward the safety of his room, then shook his head slightly. Curiosity tugged at him, pulling him upward. Quietly, he climbed the stairs again, reaching the floor that housed Mitsuru, Yukari, Fuuka, and Aigis. The hallway was empty, bathed in the soft glow of warm light filtering from beneath closed doors.

As he approached Mitsuru's door, the unfamiliar voice became clearer, punctuated occasionally by Mitsuru's calm, yet increasingly agitated replies. He pressed carefully against the wall, leaning close, his heart quickening with a mixture of intrigue and embarrassment.
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In Mitsuru's room, the soft glow of lamplight cast a warm, gentle hue over every surface, illuminating neat shelves filled with carefully organized books, scholarly texts, and elegantly framed photos. Amidst this comforting quietude, Mitsuru stood in a subtle tension, her arms folded defensively over her chest as she regarded the woman before her-a strikingly elegant yet utterly mischievous figure dressed impeccably in a teal maid outfit. This woman was Juliette, whose vivacious eyes sparkled with barely contained delight as she dangled Mitsuru’s pristine, carefully polished ice skates tantalizingly out of reach.

“Juliette,” Mitsuru finally said, voice tight with carefully masked exasperation, “we've been over this. Please stop with these questions and simply hand over the skates.”

Juliette’s lips curved upwards into a knowing smirk, eyes shimmering with barely suppressed mirth. “Ah, mademoiselle Mitsuru, you think I can simply hand these over without discovering who the lucky man is?” She leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially, “Come now, tell me-who has managed to thaw our dear Ice Empress’s heart?”

Mitsuru felt warmth surge unbidden into her cheeks, betraying her carefully guarded composure. Irritated by her own sudden vulnerability, she sighed sharply and glanced away. “This isn’t what you think. It’s merely an ice skating lesson. Nothing more.”

Juliette's smirk widened, her teasing tone growing even lighter, carrying the effortless charm of someone fully confident in her insight. “Oh, my Mistress Mitsuru, there's always time to discuss matters of young love, especially when it’s your very first date.”

“It is not a date!” Mitsuru snapped, her tone more heated than intended, and then immediately tempered by embarrassment. She quickly composed herself, taking a slow, steady breath. “It’s just an ice skating lesson, Juliette. There's nothing more to discuss.”

Juliette tilted her head slightly, considering Mitsuru with a playful yet gentle scrutiny. “But why must it be just a lesson?” she prodded softly, the light in her eyes gentling into something more understanding yet still teasing. “Why can’t you simply allow yourself this moment of simple joy?”

Mitsuru fell silent, unable to immediately answer. Her arms remained crossed tightly, her posture rigid as she stared off at nothing in particular, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts, each one tangled and complicated. Why indeed? Minato was smart, kind, and quietly caring, qualities she had observed countless times, not just in battle or in school, but in the subtle way he listened to her, the quiet support he offered without needing acknowledgment or fanfare. He was more than just a capable leader, more than just someone she trusted implicitly in the thick of battle.

There was something else, something elusive and quietly captivating about him. The way he observed the world, the way he seemed able to understand her without words-it stirred something deep within her, something that frightened her a little but intrigued her far more. Lost momentarily in these quiet reflections, she barely noticed Juliette waving her hand dramatically in front of her face.

“Mistress, ma chérie, come back to reality,” Juliette teased gently, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Mitsuru blinked, startled out of her reverie. Juliette was still waiting, eyes glittering with amusement, eyebrows raised in a playful challenge.

Finally, Mitsuru sighed softly, her voice more vulnerable than she'd intended. “Perhaps there’s something special about Minato…” She paused abruptly, eyes widening slightly in surprise and embarrassment at her slip. She had unconsciously used his first name, an intimacy she rarely allowed herself.

Juliette’s smile deepened into a gleeful, triumphant grin. “Minato, hmm? Calling someone by their first name, Mistress, that's practically L-O-V-E,” Juliette teased melodiously, her eyes sparkling mischievously, the teasing lilt of her French accent softening the words but making them no less pointed.

Mitsuru flushed deeply-crimson rushing up from the delicate line of her jaw to the very tips of her ears. She pressed her lips together in a hard line, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she mustered every ounce of composure her upbringing had taught her. It was, she had learned, the only way to survive a sparring match with Juliette’s relentless affection and irrepressible humor.

She shut her eyes, trying desperately to gather her dignity, but found the effort hopeless. The memory of Minato’s quiet, earnest gaze lingered in her mind, the way he’d said her name-no honorific, just gentle, respectful intimacy. Was it really that obvious, even to Juliette? Mitsuru’s mind buzzed with the question, her heart pounding in her chest with a mixture of dread and something that, if she dared to admit it, felt suspiciously like hope.

Truth be told, there were moments-fleeting, almost frighteningly honest moments-when Mitsuru would have gladly strangled her maid for such relentless teasing. But Juliette was more than a servant, more even than a confidante. She was family, the closest Mitsuru had to an older sister.

Still, Mitsuru could not let the moment pass unaddressed. With a deep breath, she straightened, arms crossing over her chest, her posture all proud lines and self-control. “Juliette, you’re incorrigible,” she muttered, her voice low but laced with a familiar affection.

Juliette only laughed, a rich, genuine sound that seemed to fill the room with warmth. “You say that, chérie, but you wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

Mitsuru didn’t dignify that with a response, but a small, unwilling smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She glanced aside, almost shy for a moment, before steeling herself and speaking in her most formal, diplomatic tone. “There… may be something between us. Perhaps. But for now, it is simply an evening of ice skating.” Her composure faltered, just slightly, as she pressed on, “May I please have my skates now?”

Juliette regarded her with the loving patience only the closest of friends can manage, letting the request hang in the air for a deliberate beat, her head cocked to the side as if she were deciding whether to extend the tease even further. For a moment, it seemed as if she might-her lips parted, another quip clearly hovering on the tip of her tongue—but then her gaze softened. She looked down at the gleaming white skates in her hands, running her fingers over the polished leather with something like nostalgia.

Without another word, Juliette stepped forward, pressing the skates gently into Mitsuru’s hands. Their fingers brushed, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them. “You’ll be wonderful,” Juliette said softly, her teasing melting into genuine encouragement. “And I’ll stay here until you leave, just in case you need anything.”

Mitsuru nodded once, grateful beyond words for the subtle support-so quiet, yet so constant. She turned toward the door, her pulse thrumming beneath her calm exterior. Each movement was precise, controlled, but inside she felt a swirl of emotions she could hardly name, anticipation, anxiety, and a bright, trembling excitement.
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Minato stood with his heart thundering in his chest, the red ice skates still nestled securely beneath his arm. He had heard the tail end of the conversation, Juliette’s teasing laughter ringing out even through the heavy wood of Mitsuru’s door. He hesitated, second-guessing whether he should knock at all, afraid of intruding on something private.

But then, before he could lose his nerve, he rapped softly on the door-a gentle, courteous sound that echoed faintly down the corridor.

The door swung open almost instantly. Mitsuru stood framed in the golden light of her room, her posture regal, her expression carefully composed. But Minato caught the faint flush in her cheeks, the slight flutter in her breath. For a moment, the two simply looked at each other, the rest of the world falling away.

Mitsuru was the first to break the silence, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow, her voice only just steady. “How long have you been standing there?”

Minato shook his head, tucking a stray lock of blue hair behind his ear. “I just got here,” he replied softly, his tone genuine-almost reverent.

Mitsuru studied his face, searching for any sign of subterfuge. Finding none, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, a small smile softening her features. “I see,” she said quietly. “Are you ready to head out?”

He nodded, and for a moment, the tension between them was gentle, charged not with fear but with the possibility of something new. Mitsuru stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. As she did, Juliette, true to her word, watched them through the door slightly open, her face framed by the soft light inside. The Frenchwoman lifted her flip phone with a dramatic flourish and, with a click, captured a photo of the two as they walked side by side toward the stairs.

She grinned at the tiny digital image now frozen on her screen. “Shumitsu,” Juliette murmured to herself, tasting the word, rolling it across her tongue. “Oui, it has a lovely ring to it.” She giggled, shaking her head in delight. “Yes, I think I’ll ship it.” Her eyes lingered on the closed door a moment longer, sending a silent prayer of encouragement after her dear Mistress.

Chapter Text

Mitsuru and Minato were still walking through the quiet evening, side by side. The streets between the dorm and the skating rink had always felt short before-just a few turns, a straight shot through the city’s neon arteries. But tonight, every step seemed to stretch, weighted by a thousand unspoken things.

Minato could feel his heart thundering against his chest, so loud he wondered if Mitsuru might hear it. The world outside blurred around the edges-passing cars, shifting crowds, distant laughter-but all he could focus on was the memory of Mitsuru’s voice through the door, "There may be something between us. Perhaps. But for now, it is simply an evening of ice skating."

He’d stood there, stunned, unable to move for a heartbeat. There was a chance. A real one. All he had to do was hold on, not mess up, not let the nerves swallow him whole. Focus on the lesson. Don’t ruin this. Don’t hope too hard. But how could he not, when every part of her-her quiet confidence, her rare vulnerability-made him want to reach out and say everything he’d been too scared to voice?

He kept sneaking glances at her as they walked. Mitsuru looked so effortlessly composed: crimson hair flowing like silk, posture straight and regal, the white skate bag balanced against her shoulder. But every so often, she would shift, almost imperceptibly, her hand tightening on the strap, her gaze flitting from the horizon to the ground. She was thinking. Overthinking, perhaps. Just like him.

Minato’s mind spun with the memory of Juliette’s laughter and Mitsuru’s trembling reply. There might be something between them. The hope stung, bright and bittersweet. He wished this was a real date. He wished he could reach out and take her hand, just like the couples weaving ahead of them, laughing and moving through the world as if it belonged to them alone.

He forced himself to look away, pretending to focus on the city’s nightscape, on the gentle way the lights reflected off rain-dampened pavement. But, inevitably, his eyes found Mitsuru again-her face calm, her eyes sharp, but underneath, the faintest hint of uncertainty. She was so beautiful, he thought, not just because of the way she looked, but because of how carefully she carried herself. She was the Ice Empress, but in moments like this, Minato saw the girl beneath the titles, hopeful, anxious, wonderfully human.

Without realizing it, he lingered on her too long. Mitsuru caught his gaze, her eyes sharp and questioning. “Is something the matter?” she asked, voice smooth but softer than usual, a faint trace of nervousness threaded through her words.

Minato snapped out of his quiet reverie, a flush rising faintly across his cheeks. He quickly shook his head, attempting a reassuring smile, though he felt it might be slightly awkward in his haste. "No, nothing's wrong," he assured gently, his voice calm despite the rapid beat of his heart. "I'm just... excited about tonight’s lesson."

Mitsuru paused slightly, the subtle tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction at his words. A small, soft smile lifted the corners of her lips, illuminating her usually composed features with a quiet warmth rarely seen. "I'm looking forward to this too," she admitted quietly, surprising herself with how genuine the admission felt. Her eyes lingered briefly on Minato’s face, the steady blue gaze that always seemed to calm her own anxieties.

Inside, however, Mitsuru's carefully controlled thoughts had begun to unravel, betraying her carefully maintained composure. Her heart quickened, beating urgently against her ribs. It was ridiculous-she was Mitsuru Kirijo, heir to the Kirijo Group, leader of SEES, a master strategist known for her impeccable poise. Yet here she was, nearly reduced to a nervous wreck by the gentle gaze of a young man whose quiet understanding always seemed to pierce straight through her carefully erected walls.

This was Juliette’s fault, she decided firmly. Her dear maid’s teasing had introduced a note of confusion, planting ideas Mitsuru had carefully avoided contemplating for far too long. The way Minato looked at her now-his soft, blue eyes steady and earnest-felt different from all the other times. It wasn't simply a lesson anymore, was it? Mitsuru’s mind raced. Was this, in fact, a date? Her breath hitched slightly at the thought, sending another pulse of nervousness through her chest.

She quickly regained control, determined to steady herself before embarrassment took over completely. Her mother, so elegant and poised, would surely tease her gently if she were here. Her father, ever watchful and dignified, would probably smile knowingly. The thought of either of them seeing her like this, visibly flustered over something so simple, was enough to make Mitsuru resolve to regain her composure immediately.

Yet, as they walked toward the skating rink, her heartbeat refused to steady, and her pulse fluttered erratically. Each time she risked a glance at Minato, the warm confidence she’d once worn like armor slipped just a bit further away, replaced by something fragile, vulnerable, and strangely wonderful.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silent anticipation, they arrived at the skating rink. The brightly lit building stood vibrant in the night, its windows aglow with the cheerful light spilling out onto the pavement. Inside, the rink buzzed with life. Couples glided effortlessly across the smooth ice, their laughter and playful banter filling the air with joyful energy. Mitsuru’s gaze swept over the rink, her chest tightening slightly at the sight. Everyone seemed so relaxed, holding hands, spinning gracefully, their smiles carefree and genuine. She swallowed discreetly, trying to quell the sudden uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm her.

Beside her, Minato’s expression mirrored some of her internal turmoil, his eyes wide and thoughtful as he watched the couples move gracefully on the ice. Mitsuru found herself wishing she could see inside his mind, to know exactly what he was thinking at this precise moment. Was he wishing this was more than a lesson too? Was he feeling the same confusion and longing that tugged insistently at her heart?

Shaking herself internally, Mitsuru led him silently to the benches lining the rink. They sat side by side, quietly putting on their skates. Minato’s fingers fumbled slightly as he laced up the bright red boots he had bought specifically for this moment. Mitsuru watched from the corner of her eye, noting his subtle anxiety. Something within her softened further, and she spoke gently, reassuringly. "Relax, Arisato. This is easier than it seems," she said, her voice smooth with practiced calm.

He met her eyes, giving a shy nod, though uncertainty still flickered within his gaze. Mitsuru stood gracefully, stepping onto the ice with practiced ease. She took a slow, controlled breath, closing her eyes briefly to center herself. Then, moving fluidly, she began to skate.

Her movements were a mesmerizing blend of power and elegance, refined over countless hours of meticulous practice. Every motion was precise yet effortless, her posture impeccable as she glided smoothly across the ice, each stride graceful and commanding. The soft whoosh of her skates cutting through the ice seemed to quiet the noise of the world around them. For a moment, Mitsuru lost herself, feeling the rush of wind against her cheeks, the gentle, exhilarating sensation of freedom she always felt while skating. She moved effortlessly, a silent dance of grace and subtle strength, utterly captivating.

Minato watched, utterly transfixed. His jaw dropped slightly, eyes widening in quiet awe. Mitsuru’s skating wasn't merely impressive-it was breathtaking. He had always admired her power and grace on the battlefield, but here on the ice, those traits seemed amplified tenfold. His pulse quickened as he followed her every move, the fluid grace of her skating resonating deeply within his heart. He had known Mitsuru as a brilliant leader, a disciplined fighter, but seeing this hidden, intimate side of her felt like an honor he hadn’t fully earned.

Finally, Mitsuru slowed to a graceful stop before him, her breathing slightly quicker, cheeks faintly flushed from the effort and exhilaration. "Now it's your turn," she said softly, her voice gentle yet holding an encouraging firmness. She extended a slender hand toward him, her gaze warm yet steady.

Minato took a steadying breath, pulse drumming wildly at the base of his throat. The weight of Mitsuru’s gaze-the subtle expectation, mingled with gentle encouragement-settled on him heavily, prompting him to steel himself against the bubbling anxiety threatening to undo him entirely. He nodded once, determination shimmering softly beneath the quiet surface of his gaze.

"I got this," he murmured, almost more to himself than to Mitsuru, his voice wavering with a blend of hopeful confidence and the faintest tremor of doubt.

Placing one skate cautiously onto the ice, Minato felt the strange sensation of gliding forward, briefly thrilling at the gentle motion. For an instant, he dared to hope-perhaps he had a natural talent for this, perhaps this would be easier than he had feared.

But the moment his second skate met the ice, his balance betrayed him. His body tilted forward suddenly, and panic surged through him, shattering the fragile veneer of confidence he'd painstakingly gathered. His arms flailed instinctively, reaching desperately for something-anything-to steady himself. But there was only empty air.

Gravity seized him fiercely, mercilessly. Minato crashed onto the ice, the sharp pain of impact jolting through his entire frame. A startled gasp escaped his lips, embarrassment surging hotly through his veins, painting his cheeks a painful shade of crimson.

"I'm a failure," he whispered, voice shaking with self-reproach and humiliation. All the carefully constructed visions of tonight-the idealized scenarios he'd endlessly rehearsed-shattered around him like shards of ice. "After all this planning... I'm sorry, everyone."

The rink seemed to stretch endlessly beneath him, as if even the ice were mocking him now, reflecting a distorted image of himself-small, ineffectual, forever slipping in the shadows of stronger protagonists. Even now, as he lay there, the bitter thought crept forward like a serpent, in a grand narrative, he'd only ever manage third-best. The thought of himself reduced from protagonist to mere side character twisted painfully in his heart.

"No wonder," he murmured bitterly, eyes closed against the humiliation, "I can't get Mitsuru..."

The seconds seemed to slow, each heartbeat echoing painfully in his chest. He felt tears stinging at the edges of his vision-not from physical pain, but from something deeper, something infinitely more tender and wounded.

Then, suddenly, the soft sound of skating reached his ears-swift, rhythmic, urgent. Mitsuru’s worried voice pierced through his spiraling thoughts, sharp yet gentle. "Arisato! Are you alright?"

He opened his eyes to find Mitsuru kneeling beside him, her typically serene features etched with genuine concern. Her crimson hair framed her face in a cascade, illuminated softly beneath the rink's bright lights. Her eyes, normally so controlled, now shimmered with a vulnerable, quiet worry.

Minato tried to speak, embarrassment turning his tongue to lead, but then felt something warm and wet trickling down his lip. He reached up instinctively, pulling back fingers stained with red. His nose was bleeding. The shame intensified. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, humiliation coloring his voice with an aching vulnerability he hadn't meant to reveal.

But Mitsuru’s expression softened further, any lingering formality or guardedness melting away entirely. Without a word, she reached into the pocket of her elegant coat, drawing forth a neatly folded paper napkin. Her fingers brushed gently, carefully against his chin, lifting his face toward her with tender yet firm precision. "Hold still," she whispered, her voice soothing, uncharacteristically gentle and undeniably intimate.

Minato’s heart pounded fiercely as Mitsuru leaned closer, her delicate fingers deftly pressing the napkin against his nose. Her scent enveloped him-a subtle fragrance of lavender and rose, uniquely hers, lingering in the air between them. He felt his breath hitch, chest constricting with a mix of embarrassment and quiet, yearning joy at her closeness.

She waited patiently, her gaze never wavering from his face, calm yet intensely focused. It felt like forever, suspended in a moment that neither wished to break. Minato could hardly breathe, not from pain, but from the overwhelming intimacy, the gentle determination in her eyes, the warmth of her presence.

Slowly, the bleeding ceased. Mitsuru removed the napkin, inspecting his face critically before giving a small, reassuring nod. "There," she said softly, almost shyly, her eyes finally breaking away from his. "It stopped."

"Thank you," Minato murmured, heart thundering painfully against his ribs. The embarrassment still lingered, but Mitsuru's quiet care had wrapped around him like a comforting balm, easing his bruised pride.

She hesitated slightly, as if unsure whether to offer more comfort or to retreat back into her carefully constructed composure. But Minato was already moving, pushing himself cautiously upright, steadying his hands against the ice, his voice trembling but resolute as he said firmly, "I want to go again."

Mitsuru blinked, surprise flashing briefly across her elegant features, swiftly replaced by admiration and gentle pride. She rose gracefully beside him, extending her hand once more, her voice quiet yet powerfully encouraging. "Then, let's try again. Together."

For a moment, Minato could only stare, his breath held captive by the gentleness in her eyes-the certainty, the patience, the shimmering, quiet warmth. Her hand hovered, palm up, as if offering not just support on the ice but something far more precious and fragile. Minato swallowed, his own hand trembling as he slipped it into hers.

Her fingers were surprisingly warm, delicate yet steady, and the moment their palms met, Minato felt an electric jolt-like something inside him settling, like a storm finally finding its center. Mitsuru gave his hand a gentle squeeze, her lips curving into a small, unguarded smile that seemed to light up the cold rink.

“Follow my lead,” she whispered, her voice lower now, breathless-not from skating, but from nerves, excitement, hope. She stepped forward, and Minato followed, their joined hands the only anchor he had in a world suddenly too bright, too sharp, too beautiful.

They moved slowly at first, Mitsuru gliding with her effortless grace, Minato shuffling awkwardly but determined. Her hand steadied him every time he faltered, her voice guiding him-soft commands, gentle reassurances. She was patient, never letting go, her touch grounding him. “Relax,” she murmured once, barely above the hush of the ice. “Trust your body. Trust me.”

He did. He leaned into her guidance, letting her confidence flow through him, letting his own anxieties melt into the cool air around them. The rink’s fluorescent lights cast pools of silver and blue across the ice; laughter echoed from distant corners, but here, in this small orbit of light and quiet, it was only the two of them. Minato found himself improving-slowly, then with growing confidence. He slipped less, learned to push off with the inside of his skates, to balance by mirroring Mitsuru’s elegant, upright posture.

She watched his progress with undisguised pride, eyes shining as he found his rhythm, and the rhythm-he realized with a stunned sort of wonder-matched hers. They circled the rink, hand in hand, at first cautious, then daring-Mitsuru urging him on, Minato meeting her stride for stride. Each lap felt easier, more exhilarating. He could feel her pulse in her hand, quick but steady. They were both breathless now, not from exertion but from the wild, unfamiliar thrill of simply being together.

But just as Minato was settling into this calm, Mitsuru’s composure slipped. As they rounded a turn-one of those sharp corners where the ice grows thinner, the surface more uncertain-her skate caught an uneven patch. She wobbled, her balance tipping, and for a split second, panic flickered across her face-a look Minato had never seen from her, not in battle, not in exams, not even in the darkness of the darkhour.

Her fingers tightened around his, a silent plea for help. Without thinking, Minato reacted-he braced his weight, shifted his own balance to catch her, and, in a rare flash of confidence, held her upright. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice low, almost trembling.

Mitsuru’s eyes widened-not with fear now, but with a sudden, shining surprise. He steadied her, and they spun clumsily together, their momentum carrying them in a wide, breathless arc. For a wild, unscripted moment, Minato lifted her slightly-just enough that Mitsuru’s skates left the ice, her hair flying out behind her, her eyes wide with astonishment. The move was unplanned, desperate, awkward, but somehow, impossibly, it worked. Mitsuru hovered above the ice, cradled in Minato’s arms, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could feel it.

Her cheeks flushed deep crimson, more vivid than ever, her dignity scattering with every second she remained suspended. “A-Arisato! Put me down this instant!” she demanded, but her voice was high and flustered, not at all the imperious tone she intended.

“I don’t know how-” Minato stammered, arms trembling now with effort, a look of pure panic on his face.

“Fool!” she cried, swatting his head lightly once, twice, and a third time. “You absolute fool! If you don’t put me down this instant, I’ll-I’ll execute you where you stand!”

He could only laugh-a weak, mortified sound, but genuine. Slowly, awkwardly, he lowered her until her skates met the ice again. But instead of letting go, Mitsuru tightened her grip, steadying herself against his chest, her breath coming fast, her face still burning with color.

They were close-closer than they’d ever been. Mitsuru’s hands rested lightly on his shoulders, Minato’s arms encircled her waist, not daring to move. The world felt frozen, every sound fading away, the cold air shimmering between their faces. They stared at each other-her eyes bright and uncertain, his wide and awed. For a moment, neither spoke. Their hearts beat wildly, almost in sync, a silent, trembling duet.

Minato didn’t know what he was doing. All he knew was that he couldn’t look away from her-her lips, parted slightly; her eyes, luminous and full of something he’d never dared hope to see. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in, his breath mingling with hers. Mitsuru didn’t move away, she swayed closer, heart pounding, every last thread of composure unraveling.

Their lips were only a breath apart, their hands still locked, everything suspended in the electric quiet-when suddenly, a sharp, slow clap echoed across the ice. Both of them froze. They turned, startled, to see a tall figure leaning against the rink barrier. Shinjiro stood there, arms folded, a sly, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not bad,” Shinjiro called, his voice low and unmistakably amused. “How’s the first date treating you?”

For a moment, neither Minato nor Mitsuru moved-caught between mortification and disbelief. Then, all at once, Mitsuru’s composure shattered. She jerked back from Minato, face flaming, and tried to regain her usual poise-only to lose her balance again.

Minato reached for her, but she waved him off, trying to glare at Shinjiro through her humiliation. “Aragaki!” she barked, her voice sharp with embarrassment and indignation. “What are you doing here?!”

Shinjiro just shrugged, still smirking. “Don’t let me interrupt. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

With that, he turned and sauntered away, his laughter echoing in the cold air. Mitsuru, still red as a rose, turned furiously back to the ice-only to slip again, arms windmilling as she tried to chase after Shinjiro. She managed a few undignified steps before landing on her knees, the ice catching her every time she tried to get up.

Minato hurried to her side, but Mitsuru shook her head, stubborn pride flashing in her eyes even as defeat crept in around the edges. “No,” she said, her voice muffled, her head bowed. “Let me-just-just let me-” She tried again, and again, only to slip and fall, until finally, with a long sigh, she sank down onto the ice, legs folded awkwardly beneath her.

She pressed a hand to her flushed face, half-laughing, half-mortified, her shoulders trembling with frustration and embarrassment. Minato knelt beside her, silent for a long moment. The rink was quieter now, only a few skaters remained, circling lazily. The world felt small, private, as if it belonged only to the two of them.

He reached for her hand again, offering it silently.
Mitsuru looked up, her composure gone, her expression stripped down to its raw, vulnerable core. For a moment, all her walls had fallen-no heiress, no leader, no Ice Empress. Just Mitsuru, young and uncertain and heartbreakingly beautiful in her defeat.

She stared at Minato’s hand, at his quiet, unwavering patience-the way he looked at her, not with judgment or pity, but with the same gentle admiration he’d always held. And in that moment, something inside her melted completely.

She took his hand, her fingers twining with his. They didn’t need to speak. Everything important had already been said-between glances, in laughter, in the silent courage of holding on when the world tried to make them fall.

Chapter Text

The next day, steam curled thickly in the air, fragrant with broth, seaweed, and garlic. Shinjiro sat hunched over the counter, chopsticks poised, savoring a mouthful of rich, oily noodles. He always came to Hagakure when he needed space to think, or just to escape the noise of the dorm. Akihiko sometimes joined him, but not today. Today, Shinjiro wanted the hum of the radio, the clatter of bowls, the comfort of solitude-and the Special Hagakure Bowl, piled high with pork, soft egg, green onions, and the kind of spice that burned through the morning’s sleepiness.

He let the taste linger, eyes half-closed in pleasure. For a moment, he forgot the awkwardness of last night, the skating rink, the look on Mitsuru’s face when she’d fallen-hell, the look on Minato’s face too, so vulnerable, so open, as if just being seen was both a terror and a relief.

Then the bell above the door clanged, hard-twice, loud and sharp. Shinjiro glanced up, annoyed. The midday crowd was already thinning, nobody left to make a scene-except, apparently, Mitsuru herself. She entered the ramen shop like a storm barely restrained, crimson hair pulled back, eyes sharp as glass. The steam rising from the kitchen seemed to curl around her, drawn by some unseen gravity. She walked straight for Shinjiro, heels tapping briskly against the tile, her posture rigid and deliberate. She looked tired-no, not tired. Guarded. Bracing herself for battle.

Shinjiro straightened, chopsticks pausing halfway to his mouth. He offered her a sideways glance, unreadable but not unkind. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he muttered. “Place isn’t exactly your scene.”

Mitsuru ignored the jab. She stopped at his side, eyes never leaving his. For a second, Shinjiro thought she might simply stand there and glare him into oblivion. Instead, she sat-across from him, posture perfect, every line of her body screaming control. He set his chopsticks down with a sigh. “So… how has the first day after your big debut on the ice?” he asked, trying for something like levity. “You fall as hard this morning as you did last night?”

He meant it as a joke-a gentle prod, something to ease the tension. But Mitsuru’s eyes flashed. Without warning, her hand shot out and knocked his ramen bowl away, sending a splash of broth and noodles careening across the counter. Chopsticks clattered, steam rose, and for a moment the only sound was the frantic, annoyed shout from the cook in the back. “Hey-what the hell?!” Shinjiro snapped, half-standing, but Mitsuru’s gaze pinned him in place.

“How did you know?” Her voice was low, urgent, trembling with something wild-something raw. “About yesterday. About… the lesson. I want to know now!”

Shinjiro stared, anger flashing, then ebbing away as he caught the look on her face. “I ran into Minato,” he said, voice level. “He nearly bowled me over in the mall, holding those ugly red skates like they were made of gold.” He shrugged, as if this should explain everything. “Told him about the first time I saw you skate. That day with your maid. Figured it might help.”

Mitsuru’s hands curled tightly on the counter. Her knuckles went white, trembling. “That was private,” she said quietly, but her words cut deeper than any shout could. “You promised you wouldn’t say anything. That part of myself… it wasn’t meant for anyone else.”

Shinjiro let out a slow, weary breath. “Didn’t think it mattered,” he muttered. “Didn’t tell him the whole thing. Just… enough so he can know. He looked like he needed it.”

She stared at him, jaw set. For a moment, all the old anger and pride were there, cold and clean as ice. But beneath that, something else flickered-wounded, uncertain. “Do not tell anyone,” Mitsuru said, and her voice shook now, the authority fraying at the edges. “Not Akihiko, not Takeba, no one. I mean it, Aragaki!”

Shinjiro met her eyes, steady. “Alright. I promise.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air—heavy, binding. For a second he looked away, jaw working as he tried to decide whether to press further. Then, low and almost too gently for someone with hands that rough, he asked, “Why are you so embarrassed about it, ice empress? Is it really so wrong to want a little happiness for yourself and show it?”

The words landed like a stone tossed in deep water, rippling through the thin barrier Mitsuru had built around herself. She froze-actually froze, posture so stiff it looked painful. For a moment, the steam and noise and kitchen bustle fell away, leaving only the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, every line of her body a silent rebuke to any further questions.

Shinjiro didn’t press her. He waited. For all his bluntness, he understood that silence was its own kind of question-one that sometimes demanded more courage to answer than any direct challenge. He glanced at her from the side, eyes dark and contemplative. “Look,” he began, his voice steady, “I get it. You’ve got a lot on your plate. Always have. You’re always thinking three steps ahead-school, the Dark Hour, Kirijo Group stuff, SEES. You keep busy helping everyone else, being the example, the one everyone looks up to.”

He hesitated, searching for the words, not quite meeting her eyes. “But you know… sometimes, all that weight—being the perfect student, the leader, the heir… Sometimes it just gets too heavy. You never really have time to just… relax. Just been a teenager." He almost laughed, but it was a sad, tired sound. “It’s like you’re always trying to hold the world together with both hands, like if you let go for a second, everything’ll fall apart.”

Mitsuru was silent, but Shinjiro could tell she was listening. Her fingers dug into her sleeves. He pressed on, softly, “Maybe that’s why you’re scared of anyone finding out about the skating, huh? Because it’s yours. It’s not about being the leader, or being a Kirijo, or saving the world. It’s just… it’s just something you love.”

She closed her eyes, drawing a slow, careful breath. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, to snap at him, to hide behind logic and distance. But the truth was, his words stung because they were too close, cutting clean through every defense she had. For a heartbeat, Mitsuru felt as small as she’d ever been-standing in her mother’s dressing room, learning how to tie the ribbons of her first pair of skates, trembling with excitement and fear. She remembered the quiet hush of the rink, the sound of her mother’s laughter, the way Juliette had supported, her thick accent praising Mitsuru’s every awkward step. It was the only time she ever felt light especially in her early teens. She opened her eyes. Shinjiro was watching her with a rare, thoughtful intensity. His words, rough-edged but honest, lingered in the air.

He broke the silence first, his voice even softer now, barely more than a gruff murmur. “What will you do? When it’s all over? When the Dark Hour is gone, when school’s done, when you’re not the leader anymore? Or… hell, what if something happens before that? What if Minato’s gone?” His gaze met hers, unwavering. “We’re just teenagers. All of us. You, me, Minato... well almost everyone of S.E.E.S. I know you’re the mature one, the one with most of the answers—but you’re still a teenager. You deserve to have something that’s yours. Something that makes you happy. Even if it’s just… skating. Or a night out. Or-hell, just breathing, for once, without carrying everyone else on your back.”

The words knocked something loose inside her. She wanted to argue, to insist she didn’t need any of that, that she had a duty, that happiness was a distraction. But she couldn’t. Not with Shinjiro looking at her like that—not with the knowledge that he, of all people, understood what it was to carry a weight you could never set down.

The ramen shop felt smaller, the air thick with the steam of a hundred meals and the ghosts of a hundred unspoken things. Mitsuru’s hands dropped to the counter. She stared at her reflection in the glossy wood, searching for some version of herself that didn’t look so tired. He was right. The truth ached in her chest, as if the words themselves had taken physical form, pressing down on her sternum until it was hard to breathe. She was Mitsuru Kirijo, and there was a legacy written into her very name-one of control, of excellence, of a life lived at arm’s length. She had always known what was expected of her to be poised, competent, vigilant. To fix what her grandfather broke. To lead SEES to stop the dark hour.

But lately, every accomplishment felt hollow. Every perfect score, every successful battle plan, every carefully chosen word when she becomes the head of the Kirijo group-all of it stacked up inside her like books she doesn't have much time to read. She’d convinced herself it was enough. It had to be. And yet, here she was, sitting across from one of her oldest friends, her composure cracked, her secrets out in the open, and for the first time in years, she felt less like a leader and more like... a woman relaxing.

She pressed her palms to the counter, steadying herself. Maybe she wouldn’t be young forever—no, she wouldn’t be, and that fact stung in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. Yes, she wanted to save people. Yes, she wanted to be worthy of her family’s name. But she wanted-needed-something else, too. She wanted to relax, to breathe, to laugh until her sides hurt, to lean into someone else’s shoulder and feel the world tilt, even if just for a second. She wanted to be with someone, to let herself want, without shame. She wanted Minato.

The realization was sharp, sudden, but also so gentle it nearly broke her. Her chest filled with a trembling, hesitant hope-the memory of Minato's hand in hers, the tentative way he’d leaned in, the warmth in his eyes. They’d almost kissed. Almost. She’d been so close to letting go. For the first time, she wondered what might happen if she stopped holding herself together so tightly.

Shinjiro watched her in silence, picking up the mood like a song he already knew by heart. His face softened—not pitying, but understanding, rough-edged but real. He leaned forward, arms crossed, voice low and even. “Promise me ice empress,” he said, and there was a heaviness to it, as if he was reaching into a future neither of them could see. “Doesn’t matter if I’m around to see it or not... maybe I’ll be long gone, maybe not, I don’t know. But when the time comes, and you feel something real-especially if it’s with someone who makes you want to let go, someone who looks at you like you’re not just some leader or heiress or whatever-don’t hold back for too long. Not out of duty, not out of fear.”

She stared at him, startled. For a heartbeat, indignation welled up inside her, hot and bright—How dare he? How dare he make it sound so simple, as if she could just choose to let herself be happy, as if the world wouldn’t ask for a price? As if Juliette hadn’t teased her about this a dozen times already, or as if Shinjiro could possibly understand how much she stood to lose.

But she didn’t yell. The words she’d wanted to fling at him dissolved on her tongue. Instead, she sat very still, letting his words settle over her like a blanket-heavy, awkward, but oddly comforting. She did feel something for Minato. She felt everything, all at once, a storm she’d barely let herself name. She almost whispered it aloud, "I want to try. I want to be seen. I want to be loved, even if I don’t know how." But instead she just breathed, deep and steady, gathering herself up again. "There would be time," she told herself. "There would be time."

She looked up, her eyes shining with something unspoken. “Good talk, Aragaki” she managed, her voice quiet but full of strange gratitude. Then she stood, straightening her coat, her posture as impeccable as ever-except for the slight, vulnerable tremor in her hands.

He smirked at her-soft, the way he only did with people he cared about. “Don’t waste your youth.”

She nodded once, tightly, and left the ramen shop, her footsteps echoing against the tiles, each one a little lighter than the last.
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Outside, the wind was gentle, stirring the strands of Mitsuru’s hair that had slipped from her perfect ponytail. She walked slowly, letting the rhythm of her heels against the pavement anchor her, letting Shinjiro’s words sink in, finding cracks in her armor she’d thought unbreakable. "You deserve to have something that’s yours. Even if it’s just… skating. Or a night out. Or-hell, just breathing, for once, without carrying everyone else on your back."

She let her breath out, fogging the air before her lips. For a moment, she watched the vapor swirl and vanish, as if even the air itself was telling her to loosen her grip. Just relax. Could she do that? Could Mitsuru Kirijo—a name heavier than her own heart-really afford it?

Her steps slowed as she reached the street that led back to the dorm, the familiar silhouette rising between the evening lights and the trees. For a while she simply stood, watching the windows glow golden against the dusk. The memories of last night flickered behind her eyes-Minato’s nervous laugh, the cold bite of ice, the gentle press of his hand in hers. How unguarded he had looked, how real. She remembered how her own laugh had broken free, unplanned, sharp and bright and ringing in her ears, different from the careful, practiced laughter she wore at board meetings or SEES having a laughing relief.

The feeling still lingered, electric and tender. "He looked at me like… like I was someone worth holding onto. Not the leader. Not the Kirijo heir. Just… me."

She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the wild fluttering there. Minato. She’d known him for so long now. She’d fought at his side, trusted his judgment, found calm in his rare, gentle smiles. She’d even envied him, sometimes-the way he could offer comfort with a look, with a wordless presence. Did he really see her, the person beneath the armor? Did she even dare to hope for more? The thought came, unbidden, "Maybe… Maybe we could be more."

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she shook her head, trying to chase the hope away. It was dangerous to want things for herself. Wanting led to weakness, to vulnerability. But the memory of his blue eyes, warm and uncertain and quietly brave, lingered stubbornly. If she just relaxed, if she just let herself want-could she open the door, even just a crack? Could she let him in?

She walked on, slower now, almost hesitant as she neared the dorm. The day’s anxieties trailed behind her like shadows, but Shinjiro’s words-don’t waste your youth-rang louder still.

She climbed the steps, pushed open the door. The soft hum of life inside washed over her, Junpei’s laughter from the lounge, the clink of someone in the kitchen, the steady beat of Yukari’s music. For a moment, Mitsuru lingered in the entryway, arms crossed, letting the warmth settle around her.

And then, suddenly, she saw him. Minato stood in the hallway just ahead, halfway turned as if he’d been about to head up the stairs. When he saw her, he paused-eyes widening in surprise. The late sun slanted in through the high windows, catching the pale blue of his hair and the quiet, reflective calm in his gaze.

He looked at her for a heartbeat too long, as if trying to gather his courage. “Hey,” he said, voice low, a little hesitant.

Mitsuru caught her breath-just a small, involuntary gasp, so quiet it could have been mistaken for the settling of the air. “Hello,” she replied, her tone steady but gentle, almost soft.

For a moment, silence hung between them, delicate and charged. Mitsuru wondered if he could hear her heart pounding, if the sudden warmth in her cheeks was as obvious as it felt.

Minato shifted, hands sliding into his pockets. “About yesterday…” he began, and then faltered, eyes dropping to the floor. “I just-wanted to apologize. For messing up. I wanted it to go perfectly, and… I kind of ruined it, didn’t I?”

Mitsuru stared at him, surprised. The memory flashed-his fall, his embarrassment, the way he’d whispered I’m a failure. She felt a pang, quick and sharp, at how much it must have cost him to admit that now.

She stepped closer, shaking her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth before she could stop it. “You did not ruin anything,” she said, her voice softer than she intended, rich with feeling. “If anything, you made it… memorable. For the end of the day, it was fun.” Her eyes met his, searching, hoping he would believe her.

She let herself look... really look at him. His eyes, clear and blue as a summer lake, wide and full of quiet hope. His posture, still a little uncertain, as if he half-expected her to turn away. "He really is handsome," she thought suddenly, surprised by the intensity of the realization. She wondered... dared to hope if he could ever love her, if what she felt for him was something he could possibly feel in return.

The thought made her blush, just a faint flush across her cheeks, and she quickly composed herself, pushing the nerves down with practiced discipline. She glanced away, clearing her throat. “Would you… like some tea?” she asked, more formal than she meant, but the words held an invitation, a small plea for a few more minutes together. “I was just about to make some.”

Minato’s smile was slow and genuine, blooming like dawn. “I’d love to,” he said simply, his voice threaded with relief and a shy, quiet joy.

Mitsuru watched him as he stepped aside to let her pass, his movement careful, almost reverent. For a heartbeat, she let herself just look at him—at the way his hair fell across his forehead, at the softness in his gaze. "Maybe," she thought, "maybe if I let myself hope, if I let myself relax, he could be… mine."

She moved toward the kitchen, feeling his presence just behind her. Maybe this was the start of something. Maybe this was what Shinjiro had meant-a moment just for herself, a simple pleasure that could grow into something more.

As she set the kettle on the stove and reached for her favorite tin of black tea, she wondered-did yesterday count as a date? Her mind replayed the memory: the laughter, the clumsy grace, the way his hand fit in hers, the almost-kiss, the vulnerability in both their eyes. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, maybe it wasn’t planned, but it felt like a date. The thought brought a smile to her lips-small, private, but radiant all the same.

She turned back, watching Minato sit quietly at the table, his hands folded, eyes lingering on her with a look so soft it nearly undid her. "If Aragaki were here now," she thought, "I’d tell him… it was a good first date."

She poured the boiling water over the leaves, letting the fragrant steam curl upward, mixing with the golden light that filtered through the kitchen windows. Minato watched her, quietly, reverently, as if afraid to break the spell. She brought two cups to the table, setting one before him, then sitting across from him. For a moment, neither spoke-they simply sat, hands cradling warm porcelain, letting the peace settle around them.