Chapter Text
"And who are you?" The registrar at the front table asked, peering up at a young man, possibly fifteen or sixteen years old. He had a peculiar presence, he was dressed in mostly black, which matched his mildly styled, half bedhead black hair. His face was covered from nose down with a surgical mask that made people raise their eyebrows in confusion, but none coming up to ask questions.
The boy pulled a sticky note out of his pocket and handed it to the registrar. "Taras Shakhnazakov," she read, it seemed to take a few moments to register in her mind. "Shakhnazakov?"
The boy seemed to be uncomfortable with how loud she said it, but he nodded nonetheless. The bottom of the note said in very messy English that he would simply respond to 'Zakov', which the woman seemed to read a little too late. She looked at the registration sheet for the bracket that he would be fencing in, seeing him placed against someone with a particularly immaculate talent level for his age as well.
"Where's your coach?"
Taras shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, you're fencing Kyle LaCoste. Good luck."
He nodded his head and headed down to the locker room. He thought to himself about what the woman said. He would've thought deeper about it if he understood more than 'Kyle LaCoste', but having just moved to The States from Russia, he failed to consider the need to learn a language that wasn't his own. He could barely articulate himself past a simple 'hello', 'where's the bathroom?, or any plethora of curse words. They were too catchy not to add to his vocabulary.
After entering the room, he was greeted with the loudness of people he still continued to not understand, who were already in their uniforms, complaining about how long the weapons' check was taking. They all equally seemed to stare at Taras when he entered the room, a group of snickers spinning out from the largest conglomerate.
"Hey. who're you, huh? You look like you walked out of the grave." A blonde-haired boy taller than the other pointed out.
He didn't respond, placing his equipment down on the nearest bench.
"Hello? You deaf?" The boy walked up to him, trying to confront.
"Dude, leave him. He'll probably be out in the first round anyway, looking like that."
The blonde snorted a laugh. "Yeah, imagine he was fencing Seiji. How humbling."
"Seiji Katayama?" that poked a response out of Taras, his voice low and heavily accented.
"Oh, he talks. Yeah, y'know, the kid ranked 2nd nationally besides Jesse Coste."
"hm." He didn't grasp half of that.
"Shit, he's here!" The one next to the blonde called, suddenly nervous.
people began to ask, "Why the hell's Katayama here?"
"Well, he was living overseas, even he's gotta start here to requalify for nationals."
"We're screwed."
"I heard Exton offered him a scholarship."
"They're the top fencing school in The States -- unbeatable!"
Taras studied the equally tall and black haired boy as he walked past. He carried himself with an undeniable air of confidence, but, it equally mimicked casualness. He wondered if he was as relaxed as he looked. But, from what he heard back home, as a finalist in the European Championship (though not for the same type of fencing), the name Seiji Katayama was quite well known for skill. He was finally seeing him now, and his curiosity peaked.
"Hey, Seiji, who're you fencing?" The blonde, now identifiable as Kyle, asked out.
"Whoever wins their side of the bracket." He responded simply.
"I heard Shakhnazakov's fencing here today."
"Huh? Taras? Isn't he a sabre fencer, though? And doesn't he live in Russia?"
Seiji's head turned. Suddenly, he was wondering the same thing. "Shakhnazakov?"
During the turmoil, Taras slipped out and pulled on his gear. It was completely black, the gear he normally used for domestic competitions and simple practice. While he fought on the piste, people were already talking about it, wondering if it was even allowed -- but according to the FIE at the time, his gear wasn't banned from local fights. Taras was known for wearing black. This much, Seiji knew. So, when he stepped onto the strip for the final round, he had little doubt in his mind that it was the one they called one of the prodigies of the century.
"I hear you are best one here?" The sentence was heavily broken, but it was no mistake Taras had asked it. Though it sounded like a poorly google translated mess.
"I'm going to beat you." Seiji's voice was calm, calculated. He knew himself, he would never be so overconfident to say something like that if it weren't true. But, he didn't know as much about Taras as he wanted to admit -- he didn't study sabre, and he figured he would never need to. Now he was standing in front of someone they called 'olympic level', who probably wasn't barely a year older than him.
It was rattling. But if he felt it, it certainly didn't show.
"En Garde!"
"Prêt!"
"Allez!"
The first point sped by most people's eyes, even though the pair was asked to reset two different times for same time touches. It went to Seiji, and the audience of other fencers cheered.
Taras' eyes lit up behind his mask, his expression invisible to the world. The sheer speed of Katayama's movements. He felt something different. Something like when he fenced at the European Championship and barely lost. It was adrenaline. Excitement. He wanted to be beat again. Put in his place, for lack of better wording in his own mind. Suddenly, all he wanted was for Seiji to destroy him. And it spurred him to fight his best (though up until this point, he had barely laid his hands on the épée).
He was indeed, like the rumors suggested, a sabre fencer. And, a good one at that. But, the nationals in The States demanded a different style of swordplay. Taras knew the basics of the art, since he had tried it when he had begun fencing many years prior -- but, it had never been his specialty. Sabre fencing granted him the use of a reaction time saved for the most precise of individuals, the speed of the most annoying flies in someone's room at 3am, and the explosiveness of someone incredibly spontaneous. Regardless, even in a different field, he figured his skill wouldn't go to waste here, if he wanted to make his presence known.
The score continued to pile up on both ends, and the woman most could identify as the King's Row coach, Sally Williams, wasn't shy of noticing Taras' tendencies. "That boy fences like he's wielding something different entirely."
"yeah, like he's trying to kill Seiji." he scoffed.
Another point to Taras.
"Its rare that someone in Seiji's bracket rattles him so much. He almost looks like he's struggling."
"It's like they're playing two different games." Coach Williams said quietly.
She was right. Katayama was playing to win. Shakhnazakov was playing for the thrill of it.
And he was enjoying it. The score was settled at 13-14. The former at the lower.
The stakes were higher than ever for Seiji, seeing as he hadn't lost a round since returning from France, and he certainly hadn't planned on being down a point at a regional competition of all places. But, when he saw Taras jump over his fléche, he already knew he lost. The scoreboard dinged and the final score landed at 13-15. Seiji had lost the bout by 2 points. Second place. He was more bothered by it than he looked, but nonetheless, he peeled off his mask and shook the other fencer's hand.
"You are -- good." Taras admitted. "Но я думаю, ты можешь сделать лучше. Брось мне вызов. дай мне это. все вы." But, I think you can do better. Challenge me. Give it to me. All of you.
Seiji stared back at him. He thanked him for his compliment, but listening to his unknown words struck something in him. Maybe it was the way that Shakhnazakov said it. The sincerity, or the challenging tone. He could only see a glimpse of his blue eyes through his fencing mask, but that alone was enough to stop him from being overwhelmingly upset about his loss, and more focused on being better than he ever had been.
....
About a year later, Seiji decided to take up an offer to fence for the King's Row Boy's School. Which came to shock to a lot of people, believing that he would fence for Exton on Jesse Coste's team with Aster, Thomas, and Nicholas. And he refused to answer questions on why he didn't.
"You can go back out for the rest of your stuff after you're settled in with what you have." The friendly voice of Harvard Lee could be heard down the dormitory hallway.
"This will be everything." It was one suitcase. The masked person walking with him seemed quite proud of it. Like he packed suitcases with practiced ease.
"Oh, really? Is it -- economic?"
"No, just don't need a lot of space." He patted his fencing gear bag.
"Makes sense. Here we are, your room. 108. You and your roommate are both trying out for our fencing team, so you've got that in common! Hopefully you'll get along."
Harvard opened the door liberally, revealing a very confused Seiji Katayama attempting to change his clothes into something more comfortable.