Chapter 1: In the Hotel Room
The hotel room air was stale, humming with the low thrum of the city below the window. It smelled of antiseptic cleaner and the faint, sharp scent of skate sharpening. Ilia’s knees pressed into the cheap carpet as he focused on the laces in his hands, the white leather of Mikhail’s boots cool under his fingers.
His own hands were trembling.
It was a fine, constant shake, like a wire humming under too much current. He willed them to stop. He was Ilia Malinin, the Quad God. He had landed four-quad programs in his sleep. But here, in this fluorescent glow with the scratchy sheets of a single bed behind him, he couldn’t make his fingers work right.
Mikhail watched him from the edge of the bed, silent. His skin was pale against the dark hotel comforter, his frame so slight it seemed to carve a space out of the air itself.
“You’re doing it again,” Mikhail said. His voice was quiet, a ripple in the stagnant room.
“Doing what?” Ilia muttered, not looking up. He pulled a lace tight.
“Taking care of me to avoid thinking about yourself.”
Ilia’s hands froze. The truth of it was a physical pinch in his chest. Tomorrow was the short program. The world expected another gold. The federation expected it. His coach expected it. The noise of it all was a constant scream in the back of his skull. But here, tying Mikhail’s skates, there was a single, simple task. A purpose that didn’t involve rotating four times in the air.
“Someone has to,” Ilia said finally, his voice rough. “You’d just sit here and stare at the wall all night.”
“Maybe.” Mikhail shifted, his foot flexing slightly in Ilia’s grip. “But my skate guards are on the wrong feet.”
Ilia glanced down. The big, rubbery blocks were indeed reversed. He hadn’t even noticed. A hot wave of frustration washed over him. He was coming apart.
“See?” Mikhail murmured.
Before Ilia could snap, could stand up and pace a hole in the carpet, Mikhail slid from the bed onto the floor beside him. The movement was fluid, like his step sequences. He didn’t reach for the skates. Instead, he cupped Ilia’s face, his fingers cool and surprisingly steady.
“Ilia. Look at me.”
Ilia forced himself to meet those eyes. They were dark, calm pools. The world quieted, just a little, shrinking to this patch of ugly carpet.
“You’re scared,” Mikhail stated. It wasn’t an accusation.
Ilia let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “Everyone’s scared.”
“Not of this. You’re not scared of failing. You’re scared of… the weight of it. The expectation. It’s crushing you. I can see it.” Mikhail’s thumb brushed over Ilia’s cheekbone. “You carry everyone. Now let me carry you. Just for a minute.”
Ilia wanted to argue, to retreat into his role as the protector, the one who fixed things. But the words died in his throat. The tremble in his hands traveled up his arms.
Mikhail’s hands slid down, taking Ilia’s trembling fingers in his own. He guided them away from the skates, turning Ilia’s palms upward as if reading his fortune. Then, with a deliberateness that made Ilia’s breath catch, Mikhail pressed Ilia’s fingertips to the base of his own throat.
Ilia could feel the swift, bird-like flutter of Mikhail’s pulse against his skin.
“Feel that?” Mikhail whispered. “I’m here. I’m real. This is all that matters right now. This room. Us.”
Ilia’s focus shattered, then re-formed entirely around that point of contact. The frantic beat under his fingers, the delicate line of Mikhail’s collarbone, the absolute trust in the action. Mikhail was offering his vulnerability as an anchor.
“You don’t have to be the Quad God in here,” Mikhail said, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the city’s hum. “You can just be Ilia. My Ilia. Who is scared, and tired, and human.”
The pressure in Ilia’s chest didn’t vanish, but it cracked. Something warm and terrifyingly fragile seeped out. He let his forehead drop to Mikhail’s shoulder, his nose pressing into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He inhaled the familiar scent of their shared laundry soap and something uniquely, essentially Mikhail.
“They all want a piece of me,” Ilia mumbled into the fabric. “Until there’s nothing left.”
“Then don’t give it to them,” Mikhail said, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Ilia’s head, his fingers threading through the fluffy blond hair. “Save it for yourself. Save it for me.”
They stayed like that for a long time, kneeling on the floor. The tremble in Ilia’s hands finally stilled, soothed by the steady rhythm under his fingertips. The monstrous, screaming thing of tomorrow retreated to a manageable distance.
Eventually, Mikhail shifted. “Come on. The bed is terrible, but it’s better than the floor.”
Ilia pulled back, his eyes feeling raw. He looked at Mikhail, really looked. At the sharp angles of his face, the quiet certainty in his expression. This skinny, elegant kid from Kazakhstan who danced on ice like poetry and was, somehow, the strongest person Ilia knew.
“Your skates,” Ilia said, his voice rough.
“Can wait. You can’t.”
Mikhail stood, pulling Ilia up with him. They fell onto the narrow bed, a tangle of limbs. Ilia curled onto his side, and Mikhail immediately slotted himself against his back, an arm slung over his waist, his breath warm on Ilia’s neck.
“Just sleep,” Mikhail whispered. “I’ve got you.”
The city lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling. Ilia closed his eyes, focusing on the weight of Mikhail’s arm, the solid reality of him. The anxiety was still there, a cold stone in his gut, but it was no longer alone. It was surrounded by this.
Just as he was drifting off, Mikhail spoke again, his lips brushing Ilia’s shoulder.
“And tomorrow, you’ll go out there and be magnificent. Because you are. But tonight, you’re mine.”
Ilia didn’t answer. He just pressed his hand over Mikhail’s where it lay on his stomach, lacing their fingers together. For the first time all day, his mind was quiet. The ice could wait. The world could wait.
Outside, a siren wailed, dissolving into the night. Inside, in the cocoon of scratchy sheets and shared breath, Ilia Malinin finally slept. Mikhail watched the light on the wall, feeling the deep, even rise and fall of Ilia’s chest against him, and prayed the morning would be kind.