Chapter Text
His room is nice. White walls, a good view from the window, a place where he can hang the Kazakh flag. The desk is big enough to set his training bag on, and behind the door there’s a coat rack where Misha has hung the hook with his costume. It’s perfect. Or almost.
Ilia is in the next room, separated by barely eight inches of thin, flimsy wall that can do nothing against Ilia’s determination to make his stay in the village absolutely miserable. Ilia is loud, and irritating, and he sings at the top of his lungs in the shower, and Misha would like to knock on the wall they share at least ten times a day, but every time he pulls his hand back and shoves it into his pocket like a thief caught in the act.
The first time they ran into each other in the hallway, Ilia smiled at him and then darted off with his skates slung over his shoulder. That’s been their only direct interaction in the past three days, unless you count the moment in the village restaurant when their eyes met for a fraction of a second before they both looked away in a hurry. It took Misha at least five minutes for his heart to settle into something resembling a human rhythm again, but he prefers not to think about it too much.
He and Ilia still don’t really talk, except for the bare minimum of pleasantries. What happened at last year’s Worlds isn’t easy to swallow, and that’s why Misha never quite brings himself to knock when the noise becomes unbearable.
Misha remembers the look on Ilia’s face as if he’d seen it yesterday. He thinks it’s been burned onto the inside of his eyelids, and more often than he’d like to admit he finds himself tracing it in his mind, outlining the contours of Ilia’s face stamped permanently into his frontal lobe.
He also remembers the first time Ilia kissed him. He had a gold chain around his neck, and the metal made Misha shiver when it brushed his chest; or maybe it was Ilia’s mouth pressed to his, and his hands in his hair. Ten months later, Misha can only recall the most irrelevant details: the way Ilia’s eyelashes cast shadows over his cheekbones, or the feel of the soft skin of his neck prickling under his fingertips.
He doesn’t remember Ilia running out of his room in the middle of the night, and he doesn’t remember the days that followed either, frantic and motionless at the same time, as if Misha had moved through them with an iron ball chained to his ankle, dragging him back to the moment Ilia’s heart broke right in front of his eyes.
So they don’t talk, except to say hello and goodbye, and they don’t touch, and they barely look at each other, and when they do, Misha relives everything all over again, like a recurring nightmare he can never wake from. Ilia standing in his doorway with his hand still half-raised, his uncertain smile as he says I was just passing by, his taste on Misha’s tongue, hands in his hair and under his clothes, the sheets slipping off his bare back.
Eight inches of wall aren’t enough to keep memories like that away, and the thought torments him day and night, day and night. He ties his skate laces and thinks of Ilia leaning against the wall they share, he takes a bite of pizza and sees Ilia licking tomato sauce off his fingers, he looks out the window and imagines Ilia doing the same at that exact moment. Sometimes Misha thinks he’s going insane; other times he’s convinced insanity would be better than being stuck in his room listening to Ilia’s life go on without him.
After all, it’s what he deserves. It’s what he wanted that night, when the hotel room ceiling seemed to close in over his head until it was suffocating. Saying we can’t felt like the right thing to do; holding Ilia’s shoulder while sobs shook him was almost easy, if he ignored the tingling in his fingers against his skin and the tear that opened in his chest when he saw Ilia run off with his clothes clutched under his arm.
Now, ten months later, Misha can keep the bleeding under control most of the time. But on nights like this, when nothing can drive the thought of Ilia from his mind, when Ilia hums softly just out of the shower, Misha feels like he’s slowly bleeding out and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
He turns onto his side and pulls the comforter over his head, but Ilia keeps humming, nonstop, and the sound seems amplified in the silence of the room, as if it’s coming from inside Misha himself. He falls asleep hours later, alone, eyes open to the emptiness of the dark, ears full of Ilia’s voice that, just like back then, when the sheets were soaked in his scent and his warmth was the only thing Misha knew, seems to whisper in his ear, heaven is a place I know when I’m with you.
✦
The first time Ilia brings someone back to his room, Misha is unprepared. He knows Ilia’s laugh perfectly, he’d recognize it anywhere, in any place or timeline, but tonight it’s different. Tonight it’s for someone else.
There’s a dull thud, like something falling, and then laughter again. Ilia’s and a girl’s, one Misha doesn’t recognize, though it doesn’t matter. Misha tells himself there’s nothing wrong with laughing with someone else, that Ilia is free to do it because Misha was the one who let him go first. He tells himself laughter is nothing compared to silence, that emptiness is the real enemy, because it’s in that emptiness that the image forms; Ilia’s hands touching a face that isn’t his, his lips parting for someone else.
So Misha listens to the laughs, and then the voices, and when the silence comes, he knows he can’t bear it. He wishes he had the strength to blast music into his ears and pretend he’s somewhere else, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the strength to ignore what’s happening, and he doesn’t have the strength to stay and listen, so he forces himself to go out for a walk.
Outside, it’s dark and the village is nearly empty, and Misha hates it with a depth that surprises him. Sounds are different everywhere, but silence is always the same, and it follows him like a ghost that’s just as lost as he is.
Ilia stays in his mind the whole time, in images Misha had carefully tucked away in the drawer of happy memories, now turned against him like a tangle of thorns. Ilia’s hair spread across the pillow, his half-open mouth, the tremor in his thighs wrapped around Misha’s hips.
When he comes back, a thin blade of light spills from under Ilia’s door, painting the hallway, but no sound comes from inside. Misha tosses his shoes into a corner and throws himself onto the bed, face buried in the pillow. For a long time, he waits for the final blow to come through the shared wall, for Ilia to finally drop the axe hanging over his neck, but Ilia doesn’t speak, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t hum. Silence is the same everywhere in the world, but Ilia’s feels twice as heavy.
✦
The next day, they train at the same time. Misha skates on the left side of the rink, Ilia on the right. Sometimes they cross paths in the middle, over the Olympic rings, and Ilia’s hair streams back in a way that makes Misha’s stomach turn.
Ilia doesn’t look at him once, and Misha tries to do the same, but it’s hard when Ilia seems like the only thing worth looking at. It’s hard when Ilia fills every inch of his field of vision so easily.
They pass each other again at the end of practice, heading toward the locker rooms. Ilia shoots past him while Misha is pulling on his blade guards, bracing himself for the lecture already written across his coach’s face. You don’t look focused, you missed the salchow twice, are you sure you’re okay, Misha? And Misha nods, but he’s still lost in the sound of Ilia’s blades cutting across the ice as he passed next to him.
In the locker room, Misha sits on a bench, face buried in his hands, listening to the showers running. He hasn’t taken his skates off yet, and sweat is starting to dry at the back of his neck. He should get up and step under the water, but the sleepless night and the training weigh on him like something crushing.
A hand lands on his shoulder and Misha jerks his head up. Jun, hair dripping onto his neck, gym bag slung over his shoulder. “You okay?” he asks.
Misha nods and straightens. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, smiling. “I’m just—”
Ilia appears behind Jun, clearly fresh out of the shower. His hair is slicked back, a towel draped over his head like a hood. He walks past them, patting Jun’s shoulder with a faint smile Misha hasn’t seen up close in what feels like forever. It drives into him like a blade of white, lodging between his ribs.
Jun laughs and shoves him back lightly, knocking the towel down onto Ilia’s shoulders. His hair is messy, droplets of water falling from the ends. The cold locker room light reflects in his eyes with an icy glint, and his gaze flickers weakly into Misha’s before they both look away. Misha thinks that before now, they’ve never been this close, at least not since the last time they truly were. Ilia is as pale as he was then, the moles on his face unchanged, but his eyes are different.
Jun taps Misha’s shoulder again, waiting for an answer, unaware of everything. For a second, Ilia’s eyes drop there, to Jun’s fingers resting near Misha’s neck. It’s a small, instinctive gesture that sends a cold shiver down Misha’s spine.
“I’m just tired,” Misha says at last, glancing between them. “I didn’t sleep very well.”
The slight lift of Ilia’s eyebrow doesn’t escape him, and neither does the way Ilia bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
Jun nods. “You having trouble with your neighbors too? I heard Matteo and Donovan were complaining about the noise.”
Misha can’t stop his gaze from flicking to Ilia, and maybe it’s the same for Ilia, because they meet halfway, against their will, and what Ilia’s eyes say is more than what they’ve said in ten months. Say it. Say it. Say it.
Misha doesn’t. “No,” he murmurs. “Everything’s fine.” Then he bends to unlace his skates, escaping Ilia’s merciless gaze, because he doesn’t think he deserves even this, not even the torture of having him this close again.
Eventually, when Jun has pulled Ilia into another conversation and no one is paying attention to him anymore, Misha stands and, with his body wash tucked under his arm, heads for the showers in total silence.
✦
The next day, they run into each other in the small square of hallway outside their rooms. Ilia’s skates hang once again from his shoulder, and the white Team USA jacket swallows him like a cloud.
Misha has lived this moment before. Ten months earlier, at the start of Worlds in Boston, when they’d run into each other outside the elevator and Ilia had been wearing a knit beanie, a few strands of hair sticking out that he kept brushing away from his eyes. Two nights later he’d shown up at Misha’s door, and Misha had let him in, because that whole time he hadn’t been able to think about anything else except the hand Ilia had placed on his shoulder so he wouldn’t lose his balance after the collision, and about his laughter, echoing in the elevator still open behind Misha. Careful, he’d said, in Russian, and the word had slipped into Misha’s mind until others, one after another, had taken its place. I was just passing by, see you tomorrow, kiss me, Misha, Misha, Misha.
They’d spent the rest of their time in Boston together, never straying farther apart than necessary, dragging themselves out of bed for practices and competitions only to crawl back into it as soon as they could, always in Ilia’s arms, Misha’s forehead pressed to the goosebumped skin of his stomach. It was that first night when Misha realized you could fall in love in the sliver of silence between one heartbeat and the next. And that you could ruin everything even faster.
Now everything is different. Ilia isn’t wearing a hat, and he doesn’t laugh, not even when they both step aside in the same direction and end up face to face again.
“Sorry,” Misha says, moving out of the way, and Ilia shows his teeth the way he did the first day they met here, like Misha is barely more than an acquaintance worthy of a polite smile.
Misha looks at him for a long second, and then, rather than turning and going into his room like he should, he blocks his path again before Ilia can pass. “Wait,” he says, reaching out to brush his elbow. His fingers slide over the fabric of Ilia’s jacket and then fall back to his side, stinging as if they’ve just touched a live ember.
Ilia’s unfamiliar smile disappears in an instant, his eyes flickering across Misha’s face in a look he can’t quite read. He seems angry, and confused, and hurt, and Misha knows he is, because he feels the same way, even if he has no right to.
Misha tightens his fingers around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “How are you?” he asks, uncertain.
Ilia looks at him for another long second without saying anything, brows drawn, jaw tight, then drops his gaze to the floor, to their shoes. There’s barely a step between them, an insignificant distance compared to the last ten months, and yet Ilia still feels too far away, unreachable. Everywhere is too far once you’ve learned what it means to have someone close enough to feel under your skin.
Ilia swallows, then steps aside to continue down the hallway. “I have to go,” he says flatly. “I’m late.”
Misha is tempted to touch him again, because Ilia is too, too far, but he doesn’t. “Ilia…” he murmurs, not knowing what else to say to stop him.
Ilia doesn’t stop, but glances back for a fraction of a second, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed into a hard line, and then turns and leaves. His hand closes around the elbow Misha brushed. Misha stands there, unmoving, watching him until he disappears around the corner in a soft blur of white.
✦
Ilia has a recurring dream. Misha knows because one night Ilia told him about it after waking up beside him drenched in sweat. Misha had stroked his hair and held him close until morning to help him fall back asleep, whispering words of comfort over the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
In the dream, Ilia skates on a frozen lake in complete silence. The steady sound of his blades sets the tempo, and the silence settles over the lake like a sheet thrown over the furniture in an abandoned house. He watches himself spin in the same spot, tracing concentric circles into the ice until it begins to crack. The fractures spread across the surface like a web spun by the careful legs of a spider circling its prey, until the sound of breaking ice fills the clearing. The air goes still as the ice betrays him, opening beneath him onto a stretch of black, freezing water.
Misha dreams about ice too sometimes, about the electric feeling in the instant before a jump and the one that follows, but never like this. He’s never woken with his fingers clawed into the sheets, the back of his neck slick with terror.
Ilia told him it happens more often before an important competition, and the Olympic short program is more than important; it’s everything. That’s why Misha isn’t surprised when, in the middle of the night, the sharp crash of breaking glass tears him from sleep; that’s why hearing Ilia sob softly between breaths doesn’t surprise him either, but it breaks his heart all the same.
Throwing off the covers and fumbling in the dark for the first sweatshirt at the foot of the bed is automatic; stepping out into the hallway and knocking on the next door wearing nothing but socks and pajama pants feels like the only reasonable thing he’s ever done in his life.
The light in Ilia’s room is on, the thin strip under the door trembling when Ilia reaches it to open. Misha can sense his hesitation before he even touches the handle, the long, shaky breath he takes to steady himself, and he imagines him wiping at his damp eyes with the back of his hand.
The door opens a crack while Ilia is already speaking. “Sorry about the noise.” The half of his face visible through the gap is split by a smile that looks nothing like real. “I broke—” He cuts himself off when he realizes it’s Misha.
Misha doesn’t expect anything different, so he rests a hand on the door and nudges it open. “Let me in,” he says.
Ilia shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he murmurs, uncertain. His eyes drop over Misha, unfocused, distant. “It’s just a glass.”
Misha nods, the way you would to a cornered dog, offering open palms. “I know. I’ll help you pick up the pieces.”
He doesn’t have to push any further. Ilia lets out a weak sigh and steps aside without another word. Misha closes the door behind him and looks around, as if he’s suddenly stepped into another dimension. And maybe he has.
Clothes are everywhere, the sheets a tangled mess thrown at the foot of the bed. On the floor beside the nightstand, shards of glass glint in the light.
Ilia is wearing a long-sleeved shirt and white socks, nothing else. He kneels beside the shards and starts gathering them, and Misha watches from the doorway for a long moment without managing to say a word.
Eventually he finds the strength to move and joins him on the floor. Ilia’s hands are trembling slightly, his bare thighs covered in goosebumps from the cold floor. Misha gently nudges his hands aside and starts picking up the glass. “I’ve got it.”
Ilia hesitates for a moment, then lets him. He sits back on his heels, brushing his hair away from his eyes, and watches as Misha tries to gather even the smallest splinters as best he can. Ilia is incredibly quiet for someone who, over the past four days, has tried to annoy him with every possible noise, and Misha feels the weight of the night and of this moment settle over his shoulders like something suffocating.
After collecting the shards, Misha gets up and throws them away in the trash can beside the small desk.
“I’m fine,” Ilia murmurs, still kneeling on the floor, while Misha has his back turned. “You asked me earlier. I’m fine.”
Misha wipes his hands on his pants and turns to face him. The room is small enough that he can make out every detail of Ilia’s face from across it; his hair mussed across his forehead, a smear of fresh blood on his cheekbone, his eyes rimmed red. He keeps them lowered, as if looking at Misha would take more effort than he can manage.
Misha understands. He doesn’t blame him. So he approaches slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants to.
Ilia doesn’t, not even when Misha drops to his knees in front of him and takes his hand, searching for where he cut himself. A shallow scratch runs across the pad of his middle finger, over older, deeper white scars left by skate blades. Misha brushes his thumb over it, feeling the texture against his skin, and the sensation makes his head spin. He wonders how he ever thought he could survive this—survive Ilia.
Ilia shivers and pulls his hand back, but doesn’t move when Misha touches his shoulder to help him up. “Come on. Let’s get you into bed.”
Ilia lies down with his back pressed to the wall while Misha untangles the sheets and pulls them over him. Ilia’s on his side, cheek pressed into the pillow, his cheekbone still streaked with blood. Misha wants to reach out and wipe it away, he wants to trace the dried tear tracks across his face. He wants to follow the curve of his lower lip with his fingertip, the way he’s done a million times in his mind over the past ten months, but he knows he doesn’t deserve it.
Holding himself back from knocking on the wall between their rooms has always been easier than this—than now, when nothing separates him from Ilia and his fear-blurred eyes. Misha wonders how he’ll manage to make himself walk out that door when Ilia asks him to, because he knows he will.
Misha sits on the edge of the bed as Ilia slips an arm under the pillow. His eyes are swollen and damp, his gold chain following the line of his collarbones before settling in the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple.
“I’m fine,” Ilia repeats, just above a whisper.
Misha only rocks his leg slightly, digging his fingers into his thigh to keep from thinking about how close they are, close enough that he can almost feel Ilia’s warmth in his fingertips. “Was it a nightmare?” he asks.
Ilia nods and closes his eyes, his brow creasing deeply, and Misha looks away abruptly, letting his gaze fall to the untouched pillow and to Ilia’s hand resting near his leg. It’s so close that the smallest movement would be enough to take it, to turn it over in his own and line up the pale scars on their palms.
“I didn’t mean to break the glass,” Ilia murmurs, half his mouth pressed into the pillow. He opens his eyes and looks straight at Misha, and in the dim light they look like thick, crystalline ice. “I was looking for the switch.”
Misha nods. “It’s okay.”
Ilia brings his hand closer to Misha’s leg, pressing his index finger into the crease behind his knee. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says softly. Then he looks up, raising an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “This time.”
Misha laughs, grabbing his hand because Ilia is tickling him. He turns Ilia’s open palm against his thigh, facing upward, and traces his lifeline with his fingertip. Up and down, up and down. “I’ve never slept so little in my life,” he says, amused.
Ilia smiles, then lowers his gaze and closes his hand around Misha’s fingers, squeezing them gently. “That’s not entirely true,” he murmurs, and the next second his smile is gone, along with his hand.
Misha swallows, watching Ilia’s Adam’s apple rise and fall as he does the same. The taste of that realization is bitter for both of them, and suddenly Misha feels the cold of the night sink its teeth into his ankles like a rabid dog. It’s the same feeling he had the night of the final in Boston, the first one spent alone after knowing the warmth of Ilia’s body.
“Ilia…” he murmurs, but it’s too late.
Ilia has already pulled his hand back and hidden it under the pillow, and he’s looking at Misha the way he did ten months ago, as if not even five seconds have passed since the words Misha can never take back. It was good, so good, but…
Ilia’s tone changes when he asks, “Why did you do it?” It’s sharp, and hurt, and Misha feels like there’s nothing he can do to fix it.
Misha exhales. “I was scared,” he says, and it’s the truth. Ilia’s hands on his face back then had felt like the closest thing to peace he’d ever known, and that terrified him.
Ilia pushes himself up on one elbow, studying him. “Are you still?”
Misha nods, reaching out with a trembling hand, stopping just short of Ilia’s blood-streaked cheekbone without touching it. “I’ve never been more,” he admits, shifting instead to brush a strand of hair back. His entire career hangs by a thread, and all he can think about is Ilia, always Ilia, every moment Ilia. The more he thinks about what happened between them, the more he realizes how foolish he was, ten months ago, to think he could live like that—without this.
Ilia closes the inch between them, pressing his cheek briefly into Misha’s palm. It’s fleeting, a warm, soft touch Misha barely has time to register before it’s gone again as Ilia pulls back. “Then you should go,” he says, looking away.
Misha lets his hand fall onto the bed, still buzzing with Ilia’s warmth, then stands. “Okay,” he whispers. “See you tomorrow.”
Ilia doesn’t answer and doesn’t move to stop him, and so Misha forces himself to take one step after another and leave. The light slipping out from beneath Ilia’s closed door stays on for a long time.