Chapter Text
Jet and Wave were halfway through their free dance when Sonic wandered in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. The music blasted from the TV—punk guitar crashing over tango strings. Shouldn't have worked, but somehow it did. Sonic dropped onto the couch.
"Can't believe Wave let him talk her into this. Thought she had taste."
"She looks like she's having fun," Tails said, not looking up from his laptop.
"Stockholm syndrome."
"The choreography actually works. Brings out both their styles."
"My point stands."
Jet swung Wave through their twizzle sequence, blades cutting in perfect sync. Both of them grinned like they'd invented skating. Sonic cracked open a soda.
"He always did love attention."
The voice in his head noted how stupid that sounded in a sport built on showmanship, but he ignored it. Petty? Sure. But petty beat painful, and he'd take it.
"Their step sequences are tighter," Tails offered.
"He still rushes the beat. Just hides it better now."
Jet smirked at the camera, and the crowd ate it up. Sonic leaned back, can sweating in his grip, ignoring the twist in his chest.
"Good for them," he said. Then, quieter: "Hope he breaks a blade."
Tails slid a take-out box across the table with a look that said Really?
"What?" Sonic popped the lid. The smell of noodles filled the room. "I said good for them first."
The screen showed the final scores. Silver. Sonic took another bite of noodles, pretending that it didn't feel like a small victory. He knew how much Jet hated silver.
"Why are you even watching this?" Tails asked, twirling his fork. "You know it just makes you bitter."
"Keeping tabs on the competition," Sonic spoke through a mouthful.
Tails didn't point out that Sonic wasn't currently in the competition. Didn't need to—they both knew.
"Jet's gotten steadier," Tails said after a moment. "He's been working on it."
Sonic peered over the rim of his can. "Uh-huh." "I'm just saying he seems more—" Tails hunted for a safe word. "—mature."
The reporter's voice cut through: "Jet, any word on whether your former partner plans to return this season?"
Jet's grin sharpened. "Last I heard, he's still auditioning. Guess it's tough finding someone who meets his standards."
A few people in the press room laughed. Wave's gaze flicked to Jet, then away. The reporter smiled, clearly delighted by the drama. Jet's eyes found the camera, which he looked directly at like he knew exactly where Sonic would be watching. The can in Sonic's hand cracked. Fizz soaked through his glove, cold against his fur. He reached for the remote and muted it.
"Real mature," he muttered, the words thin.
Tails said nothing. Just watched him with that careful expression that was somehow worse than commentary. Sonic picked up his phone, needing something else to look at.
The front door creaked open.
"Why's it sound like a wake in here?" Uncle Chuck's voice carried from the entryway, followed by the rustle of grocery bags. He appeared around the corner, arms loaded. "Peace offering."
Tails straightened. "Snacks?"
"See, this one gets it." Uncle Chuck dropped the bags on the coffee table and leaned over the back of the sofa. "Any luck, kiddo?"
Sonic's shoulders slumped. "Nope."
"You've been saying that since spring."
"Nothing's changed since spring."
When word got out that Sonic was available, his inbox had exploded—coaches, skaters, reporters, all chasing the comeback story. But every trial fizzled, and with each failed pairing, the buzz cooled. Jet found success fast, and the narrative wrote itself: Sonic wasn't unlucky. He was the problem. Too picky. Too particular. Too much for anyone to keep up with.
Uncle Chuck unpacked the grocery bags—chips and chocolate spreading across the coffee table like he was preparing for a siege. "Kid, you've got a reputation," he said, settling into the armchair. "Word is you're impossible to please."
Sonic flicked the tab of his soda can. "I've heard."
"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with having standards," Chuck continued. "But don't let chasing perfect turn into sitting out completely. You keep waiting for the right fit, eventually the whole season passes you by."
Tails jumped in. "He's still on people's radar—"
"For now," Chuck said, not unkindly. "But that won't last forever."
Sonic scrolled through his phone, past rejection emails and polite non-responses. Past the one from Eggman's Elite Performance that he'd deleted without opening. He wasn't that desperate.
Yet.
"I'm trying," Sonic said. The words came out thinner than he meant.
Chuck's expression softened. "I know you are."
Sonic didn't argue. Uncle Chuck meant well, but his understanding of ice dancing stopped at the highlight reels. He didn't get the technical stuff—how alignment mattered, how chemistry could kill a partnership before the first lift. As far as Chuck knew, Sonic was just being stubborn.
Still, at least he'd stopped pushing the backup plan. The whole "maybe you should think about college" conversation had died somewhere around last winter. Now, he was just worried, which was somehow worse.
Sonic's thumb stopped mid-scroll. The Ark Performance Facility.
His ear twitched. He read the sender line twice, like maybe he'd misread it the first time.
"What?" Uncle Chuck noticed the shift in his posture.
Sonic looked up. "The Ark just emailed me."
"The Ark?" Tails straightened. "As in the Ark?"
"That's the one."
"They don't just—" Tails was already moving around the coffee table. "What does it say?"
Uncle Chuck leaned over the back of the sofa. Sonic turned the phone so they could both see.
Tails read aloud: "The Ark Performance Facility is developing a cross-training program for Shadow Robotnik. We believe your technical background and competitive experience make you an ideal trial partner. Should initial testing prove successful, compensation includes full facility access, professional coaching, and performance opportunities."
Silence.
"Shadow," Tails said slowly. "Shadow Robotnik."
Sonic huffed a laugh. "Yeah. Didn't exactly peg him for the partnering type."
Shadow Robotnik. Singles champion. Technical god. Sonic had watched him at Worlds last year—that quad combination that made the entire arena hold its breath, spins so fast and controlled they looked computer-generated. The guy skated like gravity was a polite suggestion he'd decided to humour.
Ice dancing, though? Shadow skated solo for a reason. Guy probably considered eye contact an unnecessary risk.
"You think he can pull it off?" Uncle Chuck asked.
Sonic tilted his head, considering.
Sonic considered it. Shadow Robotnik was brilliant—the records proved it. But he skated like someone who'd never needed another person on the ice with him. Never wanted one, either.
Ice dancing wasn't just about rhythm. It was about the space between two skaters—the trust in a fingertip, the eye contact that made audiences forget to breathe. Jet had understood that, at least. They'd fought about everything else, but he'd known how to sell a moment. Shadow, though? The guy looked like he'd consider a partner a liability.
"He'd probably manage it," Sonic said finally. "Wouldn't enjoy it, but he'd manage."
He scrolled through the rest of the email. Trial pairing. Choreography. Full facility access. The words were generous, almost too generous.
His thumb hovered over the reply button.
"Pass," he said.
Uncle Chuck's eyebrows rose. "Just like that?"
"Olympics are two years out. By the time I adjust to his style—*if* I can adjust—he'll go back to singles anyway. Then I'm right back here, except I've lost more time."
It made sense. It was logical. So why did it feel like he was making excuses?
"Could be a big opportunity," Uncle Chuck said. "That facility alone—full sponsorship, professional coaching, real ice time."
Sonic thought of the rink at Christmas Island. Limited hours, half-melted edges, lights that flickered if you looked at them wrong. He'd been making do, but it was making do.
"Did you two rehearse this?"
Tails grinned. "I'm just saying—even if it doesn't work out, you'd get experience with the Ark's resources. That's worth something."
"Yeah, but I can't keep chasing maybes." Sonic fiddled with a chip bag. "Eventually, I need something that sticks."
"Sure," Uncle Chuck said. "But right now you're not chasing anything. You're sitting still."
That landed harder than Sonic wanted to admit.
"Plus," Tails added, ears perking up, "you'd get to skate a Maria Robotnik routine."
Sonic almost choked on his chip. "Okay, that's just playing dirty."
"Everyone's got a weakness." Tails' grin widened.
"That..." Sonic laughed despite himself. "Yeah, that might actually be the most tempting part."
Uncle Chuck's expression softened. "There's that spark."
Silence settled, broken only by the crunch of chips.
Sonic rubbed his muzzle, staring at the email like it might change if he looked long enough. "Guess I could... see what they're looking for. Doesn't hurt to know, right?"
Tails brightened immediately.
"Don't get excited," Sonic said, but his mouth twitched. "It's not commitment. It's reconnaissance."
"Research," Tails said, grinning.
"Exactly. Purely professional."
Except it wasn't, and they all knew it. If he couldn't make partnerships work with actual ice dancers, what were the odds with a singles skater who treated other people like inconvenient obstacles? This would probably fizzle after one awkward test skate, and then he'd be right back here, scrolling through rejections.
But the Ark was paying for the flight. And Maria Robotnik did choreograph there. And maybe—just maybe—
"They're covering travel," Sonic said, mostly to himself.
Uncle Chuck chuckled. "Always thinking ahead."
"If it's gonna be a dead end, might as well be an all-expenses-paid one."
Tails sighed, but he was smiling. "That's one way to look at it."
The fridge hummed in the background. The ice-maker cracked a cube loose with a sharp tink.
Sonic pulled up the email again, thumb hovering over the reply button.
Three days ago, he'd been convinced his career was circling the drain. Now he had an offer from the Ark to skate with Shadow Robotnik. Under Maria's choreography. It was probably a disaster waiting to happen.
He started typing.