Chapter 1: The Fall of a Champion: Begging for Approval
The lamp was the cheap kind, the bulb naked and glaring, throwing a sickly yellow pallor over everything. It caught the glint of Ilia’s competition skates where he’d dumped them by the door, the blades dull with dried rink water and sweat. The room smelled like the hotel’s floral disinfectant and, underneath it, the sharp, expensive trace of cologne that wasn’t his. It was hers. The French judge who’d smiled at Misha in the kiss-and-cry, her hand lingering on his shoulder a beat too long.
Ilia knelt on the plush carpet. The fibers bit into his bare knees. He was naked, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on his skin, but he felt feverish. His heart was a trapped bird beating against his ribs. Misha stood before him, still in his sleep pants and a t-shirt, hair tousled from the pillow. He’d been trying to sleep. Ilia had watched the lines of tension in his back for an hour before this compulsion seized him, icy and urgent.
“Ilia,” Misha said, his voice raspy with sleep and confusion. “What are you doing?”
Ilia didn’t answer with words. His fingers, usually so precise and steady, fumbled with the tie of Misha’s pants. The silky material slipped against his trembling touch. He finally got it loose, the button popping open. He reached for the zipper.
“Stop.” Misha’s hand closed over his, stilling it. His grip was warm. Solid. “Talk to me.”
“I saw the way you looked at me after the fall,” Ilia whispered, the words scraping out of him. He couldn’t meet Misha’s eyes. He fixed his gaze on the worn leather of Misha’s belt. “That… nothing. That empty look. Like I was already gone.”
“You fell on a quad flip. It happens.”
“It doesn’t happen to champions,” Ilia spat, the old fire flaring for a second before guttering out into ash. He flinched at his own tone. Be good. You have to be good. He pressed his forehead against Misha’s stomach, feeling the muscles contract. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
“There’s nothing to make up. It was a bad skate. We’ve all had them.”
“You haven’t.” Ilia said it into his skin. It was true. Misha was consistent, a silent glacier to Ilia’s wildfire. Reliable. Ilia was supposed to be the spectacular one. The one who lit up the arena. Now he was just a guy who face-planted on international television while his boyfriend watched from the boards, his expression carefully, terribly neutral.
“Ilia, get up. This is crazy.”
“I’ll be good,” Ilia murmured, the promise a desperate litany. He dragged the zipper down. “Just don’t leave me. Please. I can be better.” He didn’t wait for permission. He took Misha in his mouth, deep, swallowing him down with a practiced ease that felt hollow and sharp all at once. He used to do this to win arguments, to establish dominance after a fight, leaving Misha breathless and yielding against the lockers. It was a claiming. Now it was a plea. A transaction.
Misha made a sound, part shock, part arousal, his hands coming up to Ilia’s head but not gripping, just hovering there, unsure. His hips didn’t move. Ilia worked him relentlessly, a performance more dedicated than any he’d given on ice. Every flick of his tongue, every soft swallow was an apology, a down payment on forgiveness. Salt and skin and the faint taste of soap. He chased the reaction he needed, the soft moan, the fingers finally tangling in his hair. Proof he could still do this right.
But Misha pulled back, gently but firmly, easing himself out. Ilia knelt there, breathing hard, lips swollen, feeling utterly exposed. The cold of the room rushed into the space between them.
Misha crouched down, bringing them eye level. His gaze searched Ilia’s face, and what he saw there made his own expression fracture. The quiet concern dissolved into something darker. Worry.
“Look at you,” Misha breathed, his thumb swiping roughly at the corner of Ilia’s mouth. “You’re shaking.”
Ilia hadn’t even noticed. A full-body tremor had taken hold of him. He clenched his teeth to stop them from chattering.
“This isn’t you.” Misha’s voice was low, strained. “The Ilia I know would have smashed a hole in the wall by now. He’d be yelling. He’d be planning how to crush everyone next week. He wouldn’t be… this.”
“This is all I have left,” Ilia said, the truth of it cracking him open. The gold medals felt like plastic in his memory. The roar of the crowd was just noise. The only thing that was real, that was solid, was the man in front of him. And he was slipping away, because Ilia had faltered. He had shown he was breakable.
Misha sat back on the floor, legs stretched out, and pulled Ilia into his lap. It was an awkward, sprawling tangle of limbs, nothing like their graceful lifts on ice. He wrapped his arms around him, holding the tremors against his own body. “You have me. You’ve always had me. A bad skate doesn’t change that.”
Ilia buried his face in Misha’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent beneath the foreign cologne. He wanted to believe it. But the world had shifted on its axis the moment his blade had caught wrong and the ice had rushed up to meet him. The old rules were gone.
“I saw you with her,” he muttered, the jealousy a hot, sick twist in his gut.
“With who?”
“The judge. The one who smells like a perfume counter.”
Misha was silent for a long moment. His hand stroked slow circles on Ilia’s back. “She offered me a coaching connection. In Nice. For after… for when we retire. It was a business conversation.”
“You smiled.”
“I was being polite.” Misha’s hand stilled. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m… shopping for a replacement?”
Ilia didn’t answer. His silence was confession enough.
“Jesus, Ilia.” The frustration finally leaked into Misha’s voice. He pushed Ilia back just enough to see his face. His eyes were no longer just concerned. They were scared. “Listen to me. I don’t want a replacement. I want you. But I don’t recognize this version of you. Kneeling on the floor like you’re nothing. Like you’re begging.” He shook his head, his jaw tight. “That scares me more than any fall.”
The fight left Ilia in a rush, leaving him hollow and heavy. He sagged against Misha. The performance was over. It had failed. He had nothing else in his repertoire.
Misha held him there for a long time, until Ilia’s shaking subsided into an occasional shudder. Then he stood, lifting Ilia with him as if he weighed nothing. He guided him to the rumpled bed, pushed him down onto the cool sheets, and pulled the duvet over him.
“Sleep,” Misha said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He didn’t lie down beside him. Instead, he walked to the window, parted the heavy curtains, and stared out at the neon-lit city below, his back a rigid, unreadable line.
Ilia stared at that back, the expanse of cotton stretched across Misha’s shoulders. He used to know every shift of those muscles, every intention. Now it was a wall. He had tried to climb it with his mouth, his body, his desperation. He had failed.
And as he lay there in the silent, lamplit room, the chill finally seeping into his bones, a new, terrible thought crystallized. If submission wouldn’t work, what was left? What did you do when the only person you needed to conquer was yourself, and the only weapon you had left was the very thing that was breaking you?