Chapter 5: Conditioned Response
The steam from Ilia’s post-practice shower hadn’t yet cleared the small bathroom, hanging in the air like a damp ghost. He stood at the sink, toothbrush moving mechanically, the mint foam a clean mask over the sour taste of exhaustion. Behind him, the toilet waited, white and silent.
Mikhail leaned in the doorway, a towel slung around his neck, watching him. His eyes, usually soft, were scanning, inventorying. They tracked the slight tremor in Ilia’s wrist, the way he avoided looking at his own reflection in the mirror.
“Good session today,” Mikhail said, his voice casual. “The axels are cleaner. The architecture is coming back.”
Ilia spat, the white paste swirling down the drain. He didn’t answer. His stomach was a tight, resentful knot. The rice cakes and apple felt like concrete blocks inside him, a foreign, heavy invasion. The phantom demon whispered the calculations: one hundred twenty calories per cake, ninety for the apple, you could have done without, you’re weak, you’ll see it tomorrow on the scale.
“You’re thinking about it,” Mikhail stated. It wasn’t a question.
Ilia rinsed his brush under the tap. “No, I’m not.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” Mikhail pushed off the doorframe and took two steps into the cramped room. His presence made the walls feel closer. He glanced at the toilet, then back at Ilia. His gaze was analytical, detached. He reached past Ilia and lifted the lid.
There, in the clean porcelain bowl, were faint, fresh scratches. Thin, parallel lines. The unmistakable evidence of a toothbrush head scraped frantically against the surface in a rushed, panicked attempt to clean.
The air changed.
Ilia froze, the water still running. He could feel the heat of Mikhail’s body behind him, could smell the clean sweat on his skin.
For a long moment, Mikhail said nothing. He just stared at the scratches. Then he reached over and turned off the tap. The silence was deafening, broken only by the drip of the showerhead.
“When?” Mikhail’s voice was low, devoid of its earlier light tone.
“I don’t—”
“Don’t.” Mikhail’s hand closed around Ilia’s upper arm, not painful, but immovable. He turned him away from the sink, facing the tiled wall beside the toilet. “You had the snack at ten-fifteen. We trained until one. You waited until I was in the other room changing. You thought the steam would hide it.” He said it all flatly, reconstructing the crime scene. “That was stupid.”
Ilia’s breath hitched. Shame flooded him, hotter than the shower steam. He was cornered.
Mikhail’s free hand came up and pressed flat against the cool tiles beside Ilia’s head, caging him. He leaned in, his mouth close to Ilia’s ear. His breath was warm. “If you’re going to do it, you don’t get to hide. You don’t get the secret. You don’t get the shame.” His voice dropped to a rough, private growl. “If you’re going to purge, you’ll do it with me watching. Every fucking time.”
“Misha, please—” Ilia’s voice was a broken thing.
“No.” The hand on his arm guided him, turned him, until he was facing the open bowl. Mikhail stood behind him, a solid, unyielding wall. “You wanted it out? Do it properly. You’ll hurt your throat doing it with a toothbrush.”
Ilia stared into the water, trembling. His body rebelled, pride and horror warring with a desperate, deep-seated need for the emptiness, for the control.
Mikhail’s hand left his arm. For a second, Ilia thought he might be spared. Then he felt two fingers, strong and sure, press against his lips. “Open.”
A sob tore from Ilia’s throat, but he obeyed. The fingers slid in, past his teeth, pressing down on his tongue. The reflex was immediate and violent. His body convulsed, his stomach lurching before his mind could catch up.
It was messy. It was ugly. It was the raw, undignified truth of the thing he’d been doing in secret. When it was over, he was gasping, tears and saliva mingling on his chin, his whole body shaking with the effort and the humiliation.
Mikhail withdrew his fingers, rinsed them calmly in the sink. He didn’t speak. He wet a facecloth with cold water and wiped Ilia’s mouth, his movements efficient, almost nurse-like. Then he flushed the toilet, the roar of water swallowing the silence.
Ilia slumped against the wall, his forehead pressing into the cool tiles. He felt hollowed out. Cleansed. Ashamed.
Mikhail leaned back against the sink, watching him. The anger was gone, replaced by a terrifying calm. “Better?”
Ilia could only nod, a tiny movement.
“Good. Now you understand the rules.” Mikhail crossed his arms. “This isn’t about punishment. It’s about precision. You want a tool to control the weight? Fine. We’ll control the tool. You don’t sneak. You don’t lie. You tell me. We do it together. It becomes part of the regimen. Like jumps. Like cardio. Clean. Accountable.”
The logic was monstrous. It was also the only anchor Ilia had left. The demon’s whisper was now a shared conversation.
“Okay,” Ilia whispered, the word sticking in his raw throat.
Mikhail nodded. He reached out and turned Ilia to face him, his hands firm on his shoulders. He looked him up and down, his eyes critical. “You’re shaking. Low blood sugar. We’ll have some broth after. But first,” he said, his gaze dropping to Ilia’s torso, “we check the data.”
He nudged Ilia a step to the left, onto the flat, cold platform of the digital scale that sat against the wall. Ilia stared straight ahead, at the mist on the mirror, refusing to look down.
The numbers flickered, then settled.
Mikhail looked at the readout. A slow, small smile touched his lips. It wasn’t warm. It was satisfied. “There it is. Down point-eight from yesterday. The architecture is clarifying.” His thumb brushed over the place where Ilia’s ribs met his stomach, a fleeting touch. “See? When we’re honest, it works.”
He stepped off the scale and pulled a clean t-shirt from the hook on the back of the door. “Get dressed. The broth is on the stove. Then we watch today’s practice footage. Tatiana sent the short program music. We need to listen.”
Ilia pulled the shirt over his head, the fabric swallowing him. The hollow in his stomach was no longer a screaming anxiety. It was a quiet, accomplished fact. A data point. He followed Mikhail out of the bathroom, the scent of mint and bile lingering behind them, a new and terrible understanding hanging in the air between their shoulders, thin and precise as a blade.