Chapter Text
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The only true wisdom is in knowing you. Know. Nothing.
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Ilia barely registered his own words echoing through the arena. His head filled with memories as he began to skate.
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The lost is in the unknown.
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He was on complete auto-pilot as he continued his program, remembering the conversation he had the night before, his little sister‘s face in the tiny screen of his phone wishing him good luck.
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Embrace the storm.
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He remembers how the phone screen went blank, it had been late anyway. His phone had rung an hour later, the contact photo one of his boyfriend he had taken at Worlds last year.
He and Misha had been hanging out with Alysa, Amber, and Isabeau, and Misha had been roped into getting his makeup done by the three girls, Ilia having gone through the same treatment earlier.
Misha had his hair pushed back with a fluffy pink headband, and he is giving the camera a look that screams help me.
He had answered Misha‘s call on the third ring. They had fought earlier, about Ilia’s communication skills. Misha was telling him that he felt like Ilia wasn’t telling him something, that he wasn’t letting Misha in and letting him help. Ilia had snapped at Misha, telling him that he was fine, it was just Olympic pressure, and not to worry about him.
He had said some other distasteful things that had put a pit in his stomach right after they left his mouth. Misha had run off upset, taking time to process the words they had carelessly flung at each other.
Really Ilia should have been the one calling him, and apologizing. After all he had been the one to make it so bad that Misha had to tell him off, that he wasn’t being a good boyfriend, that he wasn’t enough.
Ilia went for his quad axel, popped it, and landed heavily on the ice.
The impact was almost enough to shake him out of his thoughts, but the memory of Misha‘s tear-stained face filling his phone screen and the tinny sound of his voice apologizing profusely through the phone’s speaker sent him back into his internal spiral.
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You are something, but not nothing. Past is not a chain, but a thread: pull it, and it may lead you home.
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Ilia had woken up that morning to his dad pounding on his door for him to get up. He realized that his phone had died overnight, and his alarm hadn’t gone off. When he plugged it in to charge, he saw several missed messages from Mikhail.
From the night before:
Misha ❤️: are you ok?
Misha ❤️: did you hang up or did your phone die?
Misha ❤️: ok then goodnight
Misha ❤️: i love you
And one from 20 minutes ago:
Misha ❤️: can we talk?
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Begin where light no longer reaches, where no path has been made.
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He was jolted out of his thoughts as he fell. Hard. Ilia‘s body goes hot with the flood of adrenaline that suddenly decides to course through his veins.
Fuck, he thought. A small voice in his mind told him he could still salvage it, he just had to do everything else perfectly.
Be perfect, and you can still win something. Just don’t fuck it up Ilia, you have to be perfect. You’re supposed to win gold, if you don’t, you’re a failure. You haven’t lost before, you can’t lose now. You’re at the fucking Olympics. Be perfect or they won’t love you anymore. You have to be perfect or he won’t love you anymore, and he’ll probably leave you. Perfect, you need to be per—
The impact of Ilia‘s body hitting the ice for the second time reverberated through his body.
No.
Ilia felt like crying. He wanted to just leave and crawl under a rock where nobody could see him or hear him or perceive him in any way, and ironically enough, the backflip went perfectly.
The taste of the chocolate he ate before going on turned bitter as Ilia forced himself into his ending pose. The applause from the audience felt pitiful and forced as he bowed, and skated off the ice to the kiss and cry.
He can’t hear what his dad is saying to him, everything sounds as though he is underwater, and he can’t really breathe. His costume feels like it’s constricting his chest and he wants out of it now.
He forces himself to the bench where his dad is already waiting, and waits, just waits. He vaguely hears the announcer but he can’t understand what they’re saying until he sees it.
Eighth. He is in eighth fucking place. He just stares at the number in disbelief. He expected to be knocked from the podium, maybe to fourth or fifth place but eighth?
The “quad-god”. You’re a fucking joke Ilia. You failed, and now everyone will hate you. They all probably think you’re a terrible figure skater. Misha is going to break up with you, you’re a horrible boyfriend, you made him cry, and now you’ve embarrassed him. He probably hates you.
He looks over to the leaders chair, and sees him. His boyfriend who he hasn’t talked to since last night, and still hasn’t properly apologized to. All he wants to do right now is hide in Misha’s arms and forget that the rest of the world exists. Forget that he didn’t win, that he is in eighth place and his love is in first.
But the cameras. He remembers about the cameras and the media and everybody who was counting on him and he failed as he is already hugging Misha to him.
The stunned brunette hesitates momentarily, but ultimately hugs Ilia back. It’s all he can do to keep from crying as he says just loudly enough for the microphones to hear
“You deserve it. I’m proud of you,” and quieter, “I’m so sorry Misha.”
With that he wipes his eyes and heads back to the locker room as quickly as he can, fighting tears and failing as he goes.