Chapter Text
Madison remembers the first time she really saw Ilia Malinin. Out on the ice where he came to belong, golden brown hair fluffing into his face, blue eyes lit up like firecracks as he waved at the crowd. Smiling his awkward little smile. Just effervescent, even through a screen.
She didn't know him then—didn't know anything at all about him, other than the fact that he'd just landed his first quad axel. At least in competition. But he was so happy there; scrunching his nose up in pure glee as he slid the guards onto his skates. Practically bouncing his way to the kiss and cry.
She met him properly a few weeks later, leaning in to give him a half hug when he stumbled through a hello. He was just as adorably awkward in person, hands opening and closing at his sides like he wasn't sure where to put them. But he'd smiled at her gratefully, and gave Evan a hesitant fist bump when offered, and grinned proudly when she told him his jumps had completely floored her. Had made her stop in her tracks and stare.
He'd laughed it off. But Madison didn't miss the way his ears went red, and his eyes visibly brightened.
That slight awkwardness never really went away. At every competition and gala, he was there with his crooked little smile, and nervous water chugging. Russian accent becoming more and more prominent the longer he stayed. It was charming, though, charismatic, even, until he began to giggle. Then his words slurred a bit, and people leaned closer to hear him properly, inevitably smiling along with him when he said something surprising.
Or ill-advised.
And Evan and Madison witnessed it all. The pre-performance nerves, and the stage fright, and the truly absurd amount of chocolate Ilia could consume in one sitting. His happy dances when he did well, and cheek biting when he didn't. How anxious he got around new people (once they themselves weren't considered new), and the way he'd hide in bathroom stalls after he had to do interviews. Entirely different sides of him than were broadcasted everywhere. Softer, more human sides.
He was considered the best in his field by the time he was eighteen—with some bumps in the road of his ability to actually deliver on that expectation—and obviously headed for more. To be a superstar in the sports sphere was probably low-balling it by quite a bit.
And so it continued.
Ilia Malinin: self proclaimed Quad God, and top of his game. Cocky and arrogant by rumor, undeniably gifted by popular admission. A sight to behold, even on his bad days. But Ilia? Ilia was another matter. A difficult, endlessly frustrating matter, regardless of how much Evan and Madison worried themselves sick over it.
Two different people, practically. Both inextricably tied to each other. Neither of them easy to deal with.
×××
“Ilia,” Madison calls, beckoning him over with one hand, the other holding her phone up. He shuffles over to stand at the farthest possible edge of the shot, hands curled against his jacket hem. It's possible he was just passing through, but not inviting him to join would be rude. And he's been distant all evening.
Madison can't deny how concerned it's making her. How… subdued Ilia is and has been. Mouth pressed into a straight line like he'd rather be anywhere but here. Eyes darting towards every available exit in a way that would be downright impolite if they didn't know him better. If they couldn't see how very obviously he was struggling with something.
“Smile, Ilia!”
And he does; looking more pained than anything else. Evan gently pulls him closer, draping an arm over his shoulders and grinning wider. Like his smile can make up for Ilia's clear disinterest.
It's not a bad picture, all things considered. All familiar faces. Peace signs and thumbs up, and little bunny ears in Kaori's case. Poking out of the crown of her hair, nose wrinkled up to match. But what was supposed to be a fun group photo quickly turns sour when Madison turns her attention to the edge. To Ilia's dead eyes, and stiff posture. To how small he looks, hemmed in by Evan, and practically shrinking into his suit.
And she knows something’s very, very wrong.
“You feeling okay?” She asks as the group disperses. Trying to keep as quiet as she can, not wanting to embarrass him. Even as he hunches down further and shrugs.
“Feeling fine. Tired.”
He'd gone back to his hotel room early last night, so unless he's gaming until all hours of the night, she can't imagine why he'd be so exhausted. For weeks now, with no sign of letting up.
“Gonna go home soon? We should be wrapping up before too long, you know,”
He nods. Eyes pinned to the ground. Teeth catching and holding his lip so tight she almost expects to see blood. Obviously he's not in a talkative mood, and determined to remain so. To keep up this charade of Fine-ness when he's breaking down, and won't let them help.
And they've tried. Tried to care for him like they would any other young skater. To look after his dietary needs, and sleep schedule, and mental health. To make sure he knows he can count on them, at least. No matter how firmly he rejects it. Insisting he's okay, and doesn't “need more overbearing parents.”
Out of everyone, Ilia is probably the one most in need of some serious parenting and structure. No matter who offers it.
He moves away from her after a moment, heading to the windows like they'll save him. And Madison meets Evan's worried eyes over the top of the crowd, flickering to where Ilia stands. Alone.
And so clearly hurting.