Chapter Text
The group moved in a loose, boisterous formation through the labyrinthine backstreets of Makochi, their footsteps a rhythmic counterpoint to the easy flow of their conversation.
"—and then she totally ignored me," Nirei lamented dramatically at Suo’s side, his hands slicing the air for emphasis. "I was just trying to be helpful, you know? But no, apparently that makes me look desperate—"
"You do possess a certain flair for the desperate, Nirei-kun," Suo interjected smoothly, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips as his gaze remained fixed on the path ahead.
"Oi! Don’t say it like that! You’re supposed to be on my side, Suo-san!" Nirei puffed his cheeks in mock offense, only for Suo’s quiet, melodic laugh to escape, prompting an even louder groan from Nirei.
Ahead, Tsugeura was relentlessly baiting Anzai about his height, Kiryu was continually swatting at Kakucho’s shoulder as they debated the merits of various food stalls, and a low, tuneless hum started somewhere in the middle of the pack.
Sakura trailed a deliberate distance behind them all, his hands deeply entrenched in the pockets of his jacket. His characteristic scowl was firmly in place, his gaze sweeping over the passing storefronts with a practiced indifference—until one particular window arrested his attention.
The letters on the glass sign were rendered in elegant, sharp gold paint: Étoile. Beneath it, a mannequin in a white tutu was frozen mid-pirouette, the delicate ribbons of its slippers trailing in an imaginary arc.
Sakura stopped so abruptly the momentum of his walk seemed to recoil into his shoulders. His black and gold eyes narrowed, as if the vibrant world around him had suddenly muted. For a fleeting, disorienting second, the reflection in the glass was not the figure of a hardened street brawler, but a much younger boy standing at a wooden barre, struggling to hold a perfect, agonizingly precise pose.
"Sakura-san?"
Nirei’s voice, sharp with confusion, sliced through the momentary trance. The smaller boy had turned back, his head tilted in a curious, questioning way.
"...Tch." Sakura tore his gaze from the window, his shoulders tightening into rigid lines. "It’s nothing."
Without another word, he surged forward, passing them both with a speed that suggested flight, as though the brief moment of stillness had never occurred.
Nirei blinked after him, genuinely puzzled. "Weird. He just... froze."
Suo’s eyes lingered on the gold script of the shop sign, then drifted back to Sakura’s rapidly retreating figure. For once, his usual playful smirk was absent—replaced by a soft, utterly unreadable expression.
"Sometimes," he murmured, his voice barely audible, "people stop because they remember something they thought they had forgotten."
"Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?" Nirei pouted, having to jog to catch up.
Suo offered no explanation, simply placing his hands on his back and following the path Sakura had taken, his gaze holding for a second longer on the word Étoile.
The patrol wrapped up as the sky deepened into a soft, bruised amber. One by one, the group dispersed toward their usual haunts—Tsugeura dragging a reluctant Anzai toward a familiar ramen stall, Kiryu and Kakucho still locked in their food-related argument, and Nirei chattering incessantly even as Suo calmly and amusedly steered him away.
Sakura gave a curt grunt of parting and slipped off on his own, his hands once again buried deep in his jacket pockets. The streets were quieter now, the sounds of the city softened by the evening air, with warm lantern light spilling from open shops and restaurants. He walked aimlessly at first, a pretense he maintained even to himself, insisting he wasn't heading anywhere in particular.
But his feet, guided by a deeper, unacknowledged memory, found the same corner again.
The glass sign gleamed under the lamplight: Étoile. Inside, the mannequins stood in their frozen, graceful poise, draped in pristine white and pale pink. Rows of satin slippers lined the display, their ribbons tied in perfect, impossible bows. The faintest strain of a classical melody drifted through the door when it opened for a late customer, and for an instant, Sakura’s chest felt painfully constricted.
He hovered outside, his jaw clenched against the impulse. "This is stupid," he muttered, the words a rough dismissal of his own presence.
Yet his body moved before his pride could stop it. He reached for the polished brass door handle and slipped inside.
The air was immediately different—soft, faintly perfumed with the clean scent of fabric and resin. The floor was polished to a high sheen, and mirrors stretched across the far wall, instantly reflecting his sharp, jarring features against the delicate displays.
His hand twitched at his side. He felt the phantom ache of movements drilled into his very bones, the hours spent holding a balance until his legs trembled, the quiet, firm corrections of a teacher’s hand on his shoulder blade.
Sakura swallowed hard, his shoes sounding harsh and alien against the smooth floor as he stepped deeper into the shop. He kept his head lowered, but his eyes couldn’t stop flicking: toward the shelves of slippers, the smooth curve of the wooden barre against the mirrored wall, the framed posters of dancers caught mid-flight, suspended in impossible grace.
For the first time in a long while, he looked less like the formidable first-year captain of Furin and more like a boy standing on the precipice of a memory he wasn't supposed to cherish.
The little brass bell over the door chimed softly as Sakura stepped further inside. The shop was quiet, its shelves lined with slippers in pale pinks, creams, and blacks. The faint scent of rosin powder and polished wood filled the air, oddly familiar and unsettling all at once.
He hovered by a rack of shoes, his hand brushing one pair lightly. The satin caught the light, smooth and cool under his calloused fingers. He quickly shoved his hands back into his pockets, as if caught in a shameful act.
"Even after all these years, you still know how to touch them properly."
Sakura froze, his entire body locking up.
From behind the counter, an elderly woman had appeared—small, with silver hair pulled into a neat bun and gentle eyes that seemed to see straight through the layers of his tough exterior. She smiled warmly, as though his presence was the most natural thing in the world.
"You startled me," Sakura muttered, defensive and gruff. "I was just—looking."
"Mm," the woman hummed knowingly, her gaze soft but undeniably sharp. "Looking with a dancer’s eye."
His head snapped toward her. "Tch—what’re you talking about? I’m not—"
But she only chuckled, unbothered by his rough tone. "Your posture says otherwise. The way you stopped at the door, how you shifted your weight before stepping in, even the way your hand moved when you touched the shoe. That doesn’t come from nowhere."
Sakura’s throat tightened. He wanted to deny it outright, scoff in her face, storm out—but his body betrayed him, shoulders tense and fists curling inside his pockets.
The woman tilted her head kindly. "Ballet never truly leaves the body. It lingers, even when hidden. You must have trained seriously once."
Sakura looked away, glaring at the floor as heat crept up his neck. "...It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t do that stuff."
For a moment, silence stretched, only the faint, classical music filling the air. Then the old lady’s voice came again, quiet but gentle.
"Whether you admit it or not, it’s a part of you. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of."
Sakura’s eyes flickered toward her, just briefly, before darting away again. His jaw worked, but no words came. He muttered a gruff, "I should go," and turned for the door.
But as he left, he caught his reflection in the mirror—a boy with a fighter’s glare but a dancer’s stance. He clenched his teeth and shoved the thought down, the bell over the door chiming
softly as he slipped back into the night.
The next afternoon, classes let out with the usual rush of noise. The first-years spilled from the building, laughter and chatter filling the courtyard.
"Oi, Sakura! We’re heading to the arcade," Kakuchi called, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. "You coming?"
Tsugeura clapped him on the back, grinning. "Yeah, c’mon, Captain. Don’t be boring."
Even Nirei piped up, jogging to his side. "Sakura-san, they’ve got a new rhythm game, it’s seriously fun. You’d kill at it with your reflexes!"
Sakura shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, scowling. "Not interested. Do it without me."
"Ehh? Again?" Nirei whined. "You always ditch us after school—"
"Let him be," Suo interrupted smoothly, hands tucked in his pockets as he regarded Sakura with that unreadable half-smile. "He probably has something important."
Sakura shot him a glance, tsked under his breath, and walked off without another word.
He cut down quieter streets, away from the noise, away from their eyes. His steps quickened almost against his will until he turned the familiar corner.
Étoile.
The sign glowed faintly in the late sunlight, and his chest tightened again. With a quiet breath, he pushed the door open.
The bell chimed, and there she was—the old lady from yesterday, arranging a display of ribbons near the counter. She looked up immediately, her kind eyes softening as though she had expected him.
"Back again," she said warmly.
Sakura hesitated in the doorway, glaring at the floor. "...I was just passing by."
Her smile deepened, amused. "Mm. Then I’m glad you passed by twice."
He clicked his tongue, stepping further in with restless movements. His eyes flicked toward the mirrors, the barre along the wall, the shelves of slippers—always quick, never lingering, like a boy caught staring where he shouldn’t.
The old lady returned to her ribbons, her voice casual. "You don’t have to explain yourself, you know. Sometimes the body misses what the heart is afraid to admit."
Sakura’s fists clenched at his sides. He hated how her words landed—too close, too true. He wanted to snap back, but instead he muttered, low, "...Shut up."
The woman only chuckled gently, as though she’d heard it a thousand times before.
For a long moment, Sakura stood there in silence, his reflection waiting in the mirror, poised like a ghost of himself he couldn’t escape.
The old woman finished tying a perfect bow on a pair of pale pink pointe shoes and placed them carefully on the shelf. She turned, her movements slow and deliberate, and her gaze settled on Sakura.
"The barre is empty," she stated, her voice losing its gentle teasing and taking on a quiet, professional tone. "It's been a long time since anyone used it. The wood is still smooth."
Sakura flinched, the suggestion hitting him like a physical blow. "No," he said instantly, his voice rough. "I told you. I don't do that."
"I didn't ask you to 'do that'," she corrected, her eyes twinkling with ancient wisdom. "I asked you to stretch. Your shoulders are tight, your stance is too heavy. A fighter needs flexibility as much as strength, yes? Or does the captain of Furin fear a simple stretch?"
The challenge was subtle, yet potent. It bypassed his pride about his past and targeted his current identity as a fighter. He hated the idea of being called 'afraid.'
He hesitated, his gaze darting from the woman to the polished wood of the barre. It was just a piece of wood. A support. A tool.
With a barely audible sigh of defeat, he dropped his bag to the floor, the sound muffled by the soft carpet. He walked toward the mirrored wall, his boots seeming to weigh a ton.
He approached the barre, not with the grace of a dancer, but with the cautious, almost aggressive posture of a predator circling a trap. He placed one hand on the smooth wood, his fingers splayed wide.
He didn't look at his reflection. He didn't want to see the boy in the mirror.
Slowly, tentatively, he lifted his right leg, bending the knee and resting his heel on the barre. It was a simple plié stretch, nothing more. But the movement was a shock to his system. His muscles screamed in protest, tight and unyielding from months of fighting and slouching. The pain was sharp, but beneath it, a deeper, more familiar sensation began to surface: the quiet, focused burn of control.
He held the stretch, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel the memory in his hips, his hamstrings, the precise angle of his foot. It was muscle memory, a ghost of his former self asserting its presence.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the sounds of the street outside vanished. There was only the faint classical music, the scent of rosin, and the agonizing, beautiful pull of his own body.
He lowered his leg, his breath coming out in a shaky exhale. He didn't turn around.
"It's still there," the old woman said softly from behind him.
Sakura gripped the barre, his knuckles white. "It's just a stretch," he ground out.
"No," she countered. "It's a conversation with yourself. And you just answered."
She walked over to the counter and picked up a small, worn notebook. "I don't know why you stopped, or why you fight now. But I know what you are. If you need a place to stretch, to remember, or just to be quiet, the door is open. No questions, no judgment."
She placed the notebook on the counter, next to a small, hand-painted sign that read: Lessons by appointment.
Sakura finally turned, his expression a complicated mask of defiance and vulnerability. He looked at the notebook, then at the woman, then back at his reflection—the fighter with the dancer's soul.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't promise to return. He just nodded once, a sharp, almost imperceptible movement. He picked up his bag and walked out, the bell chiming his departure.
This time, however, he didn't shove the thought down. He carried the quiet ache of his stretched muscles with him, a secret, painful comfort.
As he disappeared into the evening crowd, the old woman smiled, a deep, satisfied smile. She picked up the notebook and opened it to a blank page.
"He'll be back," she whispered to the empty studio. "The body always remembers its first language."