Ciel and Grell settle in to watch Ronald Knox, the third-to-last competitor. His program is preposterously ambitious, filled with more quad jumps than Ciel would want to try in a whole day, and, for the first time this season, he actually pulls them all off. He crashes through multiple world records, inspiring a standing ovation and without a doubt winning the gold for America. Now in second, Ciel is grudgingly impressed, but Grell simply sniffs at his heavy metal music. "It sounds like synchronized lawnmowers," she protests.

Next, Aleister Chambers, once again completely feathered, skates a clean program, but Ciel considers the technical elements rather insubstantial. The judges agree, and they just barely put Chambers in third, still far behind Ciel.

Sebastian appears at last, wearing a sequined white shirt with fluttering sleeves— it used to be skin-tight, Ciel remembers. As he skates out, he clearly favors his right leg, perfunctorily waving to the audience while he scans the ice for any detritus that might have fallen from Chambers' costume. Finally, he takes his place, and Ciel holds his breath without realizing it . . .

Sebastian skates like a man possessed, carving the ice with his dance. He whirls, limbs stretched to extremes like a marionette's, achieving positions that even flexible female skaters would be hard-pressed to reach. He spins low to the ground with impossible speed, folding himself small, a frenzied blur of motion. He rises, soaring into jumps that are grand and loose and free, lingering in low landings, leg thrown back.

His skating is strong, and he hides the hurt well. But Ciel winces as Sebastian slams his full weight onto an injured limb, again and again and again, etching his pain into the ice. Despite the stage makeup that skaters wear, he is too pale under the stadium lights. His eyes are too bright, and his cheekbones too sharp.

But his dance is transcendent.

At long last, Sebastian leaves the ice, lopsided, placing his weight entirely on his right leg, while the audience cheers wildly and rains down countless flowers and stuffed animals upon the rink. He wears a faintly vicious, pain-drunk smirk.

Yet Ciel is grinning out of pure joy. His mental calculator tells him that Sebastian's score should be close his own, that he might lose the silver medal. But he doesn't care, because it will be worth it if he can see a true smile on Sebastian's face— there's a hint of one there already, as Sebastian takes off his skates and heads to the kiss-and-cry, hugging a stuffed toy kitten that someone's handed him, waiting for the judges to declare him a medalist . . .

Fallen angel.

Ciel realizes one heartbeat early, because he saw it in a dream just days ago— Johnny Weir, the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, the "Fallen Angel" free skate. Black and white and gorgeous grey, Weir had skated with years of single-minded athletic training, softened by feathered lyricism and glittering musicality. He was underscored and kicked from the podium, though whether because of international politics or his own personal "flamboyance," nobody ever knew.

Ciel hears the audience murmuring, then booing the judges. William throws his hands in the air and starts shouting at someone. Chambers is off somewhere, voice swooping loud, thanking heaven at the top of his lungs for giving him the bronze medal.

Sebastian sways for a moment, then steadies, not even able to paste on a smile. His face pales, blank as a plaster death mask, except for those eyes that redden and glimmer.


Author's Note- Ah, Johnny Weir. The main reason why I was inspired to actually get this story written in the first place.

Admittedly, I'm not a figure skating expert, so I can't fully explicate the ways that politics and phobia may or may not have caused Weir's "Fallen Angel" skate to be underscored at Vancouver. The situation's too complicated for me to entirely understand, so if you happen to be a figure skating fan who *doesn't* believe he was underscored, please just gloss over that little paragraph. I'm not looking for a fight!

But to anyone who hasn't watched that routine, you should, because it's amazing and heartbreaking. And it's precisely what Ciel was dreaming about in the first chapter (nope, I didn't just make him hallucinate random skating angels. there was more justification there).

If you want something to cheer you up afterwards, watch Weir's Poker Face skate, optimized to make fans hyperventilate.