Chapter 4: Aesthetic Obsession
The private rink was a tomb of forgotten glory before dawn. A single bare bulb buzzed overhead, casting a stark, unforgiving circle on the ice. The rest of the vast space receded into shadows, the empty stands holding their breath. The air smelled of cold concrete, Zamboni exhaust, and the sharp, clean scent of water frozen into a perfect, betraying surface.
Ilia’s blades cut the first tracks, the shhhk sound absurdly loud. Mikhail leaned against the boards, a silent observer, his own skates still in their guards. He held the stopwatch.
“Warm up. Five minutes. Loosen the hips,” Mikhail said, his voice flat, carrying in the hollow space.
Ilia glided, doing laps, feeling the familiar burn in his thighs, the phantom weight of every gaze that wasn’t there. His mind was a cacophony: Tatiana will be here at seven. She’ll see this. She’ll know you’re doing baby jumps.
“Time,” Mikhail announced. He pushed off from the boards and skated to the center circle, a picture of easy, artistic grace that made Ilia’s technical prowess feel crude. “Here. Now.”
Ilia coasted to a stop before him. The light from above carved shadows under Mikhail’s cheekbones, made his eyes look darker.
“The axel,” Mikhail said. “Single. I want to see the set-up. Not the jump. Just the entry.”
“Misha, I know how to do a—”
“Do you?” Mikhail interrupted, his voice dropping. “Right now, I don’t think you do. I think you know how a world champion does it when he’s afraid of his own shadow. I want to see what’s left underneath that. Just the motion.”
Shame, hot and prickling, crept up Ilia’s neck. He took a deep breath, the cold air scraping his lungs. He moved into a gentle back crossover, building a negligible amount of speed, and lifted into the preparatory hop for the take-off. It felt awkward, juvenile.
Before his blade could even leave the ice, Mikhail was there. A firm hand on his chest, stopping him. “No.”
“What?”
“You’re sucking in. You’re bracing for impact. You’re not projecting.” Mikhail’s hand didn’t move. “You’re thinking about the landing before you’ve left the ground. Your body is lying to you. It thinks it’s heavy.” His other hand came up, fingers splaying against the side of Ilia’s ribcage, under the thin layer of his practice shirt. “Breathe out. All the way.”
Ilia exhaled, a shaky stream of vapor in the cold air.
Mikhail’s fingers pressed. Ilia could feel each digit through the fabric, a deliberate, almost clinical pressure. “Again. Breathe in.”
Ilia inhaled, the cold stinging.
“Out.”
He exhaled. Mikhail’s hand followed the contraction of his torso, fingers tightening. He shifted closer, his body caging Ilia against the invisible wall of his intention. His mouth was near Ilia’s ear, his breath a warm shock in the frigid air.
“I want to feel it,” Mikhail murmured, a low, private sound that wasn’t for the rink or the ghosts. “I want to feel every rib when you breathe. That’s the architecture. That’s the frame. That’s when you’re empty enough to be perfect. That’s when you’ll fly.”
The words were a dark, seductive poison. They slithered into the hollow place the protein shake had filled and claimed it. Empty enough to be perfect. It was everything the demon whispered, but given voice by the one person he trusted. It was horrifying. It was a relief.
Mikhail pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning Ilia’s face. “Again. The entry. And this time, breathe for me.”
Ilia pushed off. The crossover, the hop. He focused not on the jump, but on the expansion and collapse of his own lungs, on the feeling of his skeletal frame beneath muscle and fear. He did it again. And again. A mechanical, breath-focused ritual.
“Better,” Mikhail said, after the tenth repetition. It was the first praise he’d offered, and it burned brighter than any victory champagne. “Now jump it.”
Ilia launched. It was a single axel, a jump he’d mastered as a child. It felt alien. He landed, a slight scratch on the toe pick, but upright.
“The free leg is lazy. You’re not pulling in. You’re protecting.” Mikhail skated a slow circle around him. “Again.”
Ilia jumped. Again. The landing was smoother.
“Your axis is tilted left. You’re favoring the right side because you don’t trust your left leg to hold you. It will. It has to.” Mikhail’s voice was calm, analytical, dissecting him like one of his own skating programs. “Again.”
The again became a mantra. Single axel. Single lutz. Single flip. Each one deconstructed, each flaw named and exposed under the single bulb. The simplicity was a different kind of agony. There was nowhere to hide behind complexity. He couldn’t blame a quad toe. It was just him, a fundamental jump, and the relentless, observing presence of the man he loved.
Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold. His lungs were raw. The hollow in his stomach was back, a keen edge of real, earned hunger.
“Enough,” Mikhail said finally, after a shaky but clean single loop. He checked the stopwatch. “Ten-fifteen. Snack time.”
They sat on the frigid boards, legs dangling. Mikhail pulled a small container from his bag: rice cakes with a thin smear of almond butter, and six precisely sliced apple segments.
Ilia stared at them. The demon screamed that it was too much, that the morning shake was enough, that the rice cakes were pure betrayal.
Mikhail said nothing. He simply took one of the rice cakes and bit into it himself, his eyes holding Ilia’s. A challenge. A shared act.
Ilia picked one up. The crunch was deafening in the quiet. He ate it, then an apple slice. The sweetness was almost shocking.
“The world champion who forgets how to do a single axel,” Ilia said, his voice hoarse. “It’s pathetic.”
“No,” Mikhail said, finishing his own rice cake. “It’s standard. You built a castle on rotten beams. The foundation cracked. We’re not decorating the crumbling turrets. We’re pouring new concrete.” He bumped his shoulder against Ilia’s. “Even castles need a reno.”
A weak laugh escaped Ilia. It felt strange on his lips.
The heavy fire door at the far end of the rink clanged open. Tatiana’s sharp silhouette appeared, her coach’s bag slung over her shoulder, her phone already to her ear.
Ilia’s body went rigid. The half-eaten apple slice felt like lead in his hand.
Mikhail followed his gaze. He didn’t move. He leaned back, propping himself on his palms, a picture of casual insolence. “Finish your apple,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The data says you need the carbs for the next set.”
Tatiana’s heels clicked on the rubber flooring as she approached, her expression a practiced mask of concern that didn’t reach her eyes. “Ilia! I didn’t expect you here so early. And Mikhail… what a surprise.”
Mikhail offered a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes either. “We’re doing some foundational work.”
“Foundational?” Tatiana’s gaze swept over Ilia, lingering on the snack container, on his flushed face. “The Olympics aren’t built on foundations, dorogoy. They’re built on quads. The technical panel won’t care about your lovely single axels.”
Ilia felt the words like physical slaps. His cheeks burned.
Mikhail just nodded, as if she’d commented on the weather. “You’re absolutely right. But the quads,” he said, turning his head slowly to look at Ilia, his gaze intentional, “they live inside the body that can trust a single axel. We’re rebuilding the landlord agreement. It’s a whole thing.”
He said it so reasonably, with such light, almost bored conviction, that Tatiana was momentarily thrown off her script. She blinked. “I see. Well. The music for your short program is edited. We begin real run-throughs tomorrow. With all the jumps.” Her emphasis was clear.
“Looking forward to it,” Mikhail said, his tone pleasant and utterly empty.
As Tatiana retreated to her office, the rink felt different. The shadow she cast was still there, but it was smaller. Ilia looked down at the remaining apple slice. He picked it up and ate it, the crunch a quiet act of defiance.
Mikhail slid off the boards, his blades hitting the ice with a soft clack. “Good. Now,” he said, skating a few feet away and turning, his expression shifting back to one of focused intensity. “The single axel was you remembering. Now we make it forget it was ever hard. Twenty of them. And I want to see your ribs on every take-off.”
The work was far from over. But as Ilia pushed off into the first of the twenty, the hunger in his stomach felt like purpose, and the watchful eyes on him felt, for the first time in months, like they might just be holding him together instead of pulling him apart.