Chapter Text
Ilia is sitting on the bathroom floor. He's been sitting there for probably the last half an hour. Maybe more, maybe less. There was no reason to keep track of time. He hadn't even undressed when he got here. He ran straight to the bathroom, bent over the toilet, and threw up. Bile, because he had nothing else to puke with — his father had been shoving food down his throat, but Ilia can't remember when that happened the last time. All the days at the Olympics had blended into one.
His hands are shaking. He finally wipes his chin, but he has no strength to stand. No strength to do anything at all. It seemed to have run out when he fell limply to the floor and hasn't moved since. Or even earlier. When he returned to his room. Or even earlier-er — when he stepped out onto the ice.
Or maybe he'd lacked the strength even before. It was as if he'd been heading into the Olympics with the dooming impression that nothing would work out. Sure, he's being dramatic; he has a team medal, but the singles— perhaps he should've understood what awaited him the moment he first got to know the toilet up close on the first day, and the second day, and the third, and even this morning. He'd understood, actually, but it just didn't make sense in his head. There hadn't been time to process anything — and he hadn't had the strength, really; there was only panic and a clammy fear, as if he were stepping onto the ice for the first time and the crowd wasn't adoring him. He'd been on this ice three times already, and for some reason, the fourth time had gone horribly wrong. He doesn't have the strength yet to analyze his mistakes; his head's too clouded right now, and, to be fair, it's filled with completely wrong things. He stepped onto the ice, the music started playing, and he suddenly realized he couldn't think at all. Couldn't think of anything, except that this morning he popped into the pharmacy and now had several identical boxes waiting for him in his bag at the very bottom. Ilia can't trust himself anymore, or, for that matter, anyone.
Especially not in medicine. His head is completely foggy, and only a few thoughts are racing around, biting off each other piece by piece, tearing off words and sounds. "What did I do to deserve this?", "How did this happen?" and "Why didn't it work then?" They tear each other apart with tiny claws, like cats, until all that's left are "what," "how," and "why".
He stares blankly at the floor. A tiled floor. Cold, probably. Like ice. Ilia feels nothing. Probably the fabric of his pants is too thick. He places his palm on the floor. No, still nothing.
Tests are scattered across the floor. One, two, three— Ilia forgets the numbers. He can't remember anything in Russian either. There are several of these tests. And on each of them, there are two lines — parallel lines that will never intersect, even if they continue indefinitely. Like the grooves of skates when you stand on them and someone pulls you by the arms. Or like— who the fuck knows what. Something. His head is so fucking empty.
Ilia feels like this is just a nightmare, and he's going to wake up. Yesterday, a week ago, a month ago, maybe, if he's lucky, on New Year. And none of this will exist — no tests, no hotel room, no ice he fell on too many times today, no gaping emptiness where his heart should be, nothing. Maybe that's why he doesn't feel the cold? He doesn't feel pain, fear, he feels nothing anymore — because it's impossible to feel in a dream?
He felt too much on the ice. It hurt. It was scary. When he finished his skate, his eyes started burning so much that he was afraid he was going to cry. In front of so many people. Dad took his hand, and then — then, it seemed, he stopped feeling anything. When he sat next to him and Raf, when he listened to the scores, when he hu—
Something happened next. He must have been grabbed by journalists, he must have said something to them — he'd be lucky if he didn't yell at them or throw his skates. He doesn't remember how he got to his room, how he got up to his floor, and how he opened the door. Where's his jacket? Was it cold outside? Was it slippery?
His own hands seem very distant. As if there were light years between his eyes and them, no less — how can his eyes see? Is he his eyes? How do they transmit impulses to the brain? All Ilia is is just a lump of water and fat inside his skull, and everything else is just the car he's driving. Only this car, for some reason, refused to move today, and the brakes and gas pedals were mixed up. Or has he forgotten which is which? Left? Right? And which side is the steering wheel on?
When he closes his eyes, the world goes dark. Shouldn't he be able to see the insides of his eyelids now? They look red. Or flesh-colored. How do eyes stop seeing? Maybe when it's dark, everything — his arms, his legs, the floor, whether it's cold or not, the tests — all of it disappears? Now he'll open his eyes and find himself home. At the skating rink. And again, he'll probably be scared, hurt, he'll want to cry. What if he'll never be scared again? What if he forgets how to feel pain?
He doesn't feel like eating. He doesn't feel like doing anything at all. He's probably forgotten what it's like to want anything. He still feels like throwing up, though, and that feeling has been going hand in hand with him for the last three weeks.
At first, he thought it was nerves. He was shaking quite a bit, he hadn't even expected it, because the World Championships were supposed to teach him something, right? And yet, the Olympics were a completely different place, a completely different level of responsibility, and the first thing he did when he arrived here was run to the toilet and puke. Fucking hell. Leaving his biological material behind in the Olympic Village.
It's easier to list the places where he didn't. At some point, food stopped staying in his stomach altogether. He had to ask his dad for a belt because his favorite jeans were falling down. When he got out of bed, his vision darkened.
His father looked at him warily, and worrying dad is so scary, the only thing scarier is worrying mom, so Ilia repeated three hundred times that everything was fine. No, he wouldn't faint, and he was so pale because— well, he was worried. Right? The costume just needs to be hemmed a little, otherwise it's not holding up either. And he skids on the sharp turns. But otherwise, it's okay. Не переживай, пап. (Don't worry, dad.)[note] ([in russian "perezhivat’" means "worry", and "perezhit’" means "survive", so it’s a common joke to say "don’t worry" — "i won’t survive"])
Не переживу (I won't survive), his father would usually say in response to this. And how fucking right he is — only the one that won't survive this, it seems, is Ilia himself.
At least he didn't faint during his skate. Although he was close. The first time he fell, he thought he'd never get up again. The world spun, did a back flip, and he didn't even realize what had happened, only a sudden surge of panic rose in his throat and he tried not to hit his head. It worked — he hit his ass instead, and his hip hurt for the rest of the skate. And then — it stopped. No painkillers needed. Now, though, Ilia probably wishes it hurt. He digs his nails into his leg. It doesn't hurt. Maybe it's the fabric of his pants that's too thick. But it doesn't hurt on his forearm either. It just leaves crescent-shaped marks on his skin, that's all.
What did his father say to him right after the skate? Для меня честь делить с тобой лед? (It’s an honor to share the ice with you?) Was it his father? It seems strange. Or was it Raf? Why would he say that? Where did these words come from?
Ilia picks up the test from the floor. It's a simple strip of paper, or whatever this material is — he doesn't understand; it feels as if there's nothing in his hand at all. He turns it over in his hands, as if that will help him figure out what it means. The universal question. A fortune-telling ball. Tell me, fortune-telling ball, will I die today?
Or maybe he's already dead. He hit his head on the ice. And it's all just some dumb deathbed delirium. He's in intensive care, being resuscitated, and he dreams of vomiting in the bathroom of his room. Well, he's not actually vomiting anymore. Maybe he cracked his head open on the ice before that — that would explain why he's feeling so bad; he's been dying all this time. His organs can't cope. Maybe it really will all end soon. And it will be dark, just like when he closes his eyes.
Suddenly, as if by inertia, Ilia thinks, "I don't really want to die." Probably. Dad will be upset, mom will be upset, Lizka will be upset, someone else will probably be upset — no one else comes to mind, but someone definitely will be. Someone probably needs this stupid, broken Ilyushka, who, it turns out, suddenly has no life at all. What's the point of this life? Does it continue after you lose the Olympics?
He remembers the sounds from the stands. The silence. The screams when he fell. He heard them through a fog, as if he really were lying in a coma somewhere, and people were crying around him. He'll probably never jump his fucking quadruple axel again. And what did he fall on? On the lutz? Probably. What kind of jumps are there anyway? If he can't feel his legs anymore, how can he walk? How can he jump? Is there any point in jumping at all if he doesn't want to do literally anything anymore?
The test stares at him with its long eyes, like a snake, like a cartoon character. Ilia stares back. One of the lines is faint. He rubs it with his finger, as if testing whether it can be scratched off, like a lottery coupon. What if there's a surprise in there? Congratulations, you've won a million dollars. Now smile for the camera. With teeth. Come on, smile, Ilia Romanovich, you're happy, aren't you? Unlucky in your career, lucky in the— lottery? What else could you be lucky in?[note] ([about “unlucky in cards, lucky in love" idiom, though ilia can’t think anything about love without remembering misha])
The test doesn't tell him anything. Not a "yes", not a "no", not a "maybe," not even a "fuck you" — though it could've said it, because Ilia is tearing it to pieces. Maybe they can be put back together differently, like in "The Snow Queen," put back together that special way so it becomes clear that life exists, it's not over, even if Ilia himself has shattered into even smaller pieces. And he, too, can be put back together. And anyway, everything will be fine.
The test still stares at him. So what does that mean? Maybe Ilia just doesn't know how to speak the language of tests? He doesn't speak many languages. And anyway, the test is a loser; you need to know English if you're gonna sell yourself in a pharmacy at the Olympics. Ilia tears its eyes apart and throws them to opposite ends of the bathroom. Take that, test. Maybe the other ones will be more accommodating.
Though they're all the same. Twin tests. Are they sad that Ilia killed their brother? Or sister? Ilia tries to gather the pieces of paper, but his fingers refuse to obey him. In the end, he simply falls to the floor and lies there, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is far, far away, like the palms of his hands, but farther. Ilia tries to reach it with his hands, but he can't. Should he be able to reach the ceiling? Or is that normal?
He throws a test at the ceiling. The test falls back and somehow doesn't reach the ceiling either. Not good. Ilia throws it again. Again. Again. The tests run out, and he has to find them somewhere on the floor now. Ilia can't see where. Well, fuck these tests. He can't throw his fingers up — they're attached to his hands. For some reason. Were they always attached to his hands? Or did they grow at some point? For some reason, Ilia never thought fingers were weird. What if he had some kind of appendages on his shoulders? It's possible to have six fingers. Or four. Why does Ilia have five? And five more on his feet.
There was a movie about people with sausages instead of fingers. Is it possible to eat fingers? It would probably hurt. But if it doesn't hurt now, then he can probably try. He doesn't really need fingers. He jumps with his feet. Although, he already decided he won’t jump anymore. When did he decide that? And where is he jumping, anyway?
He finally sits back up. What's going on? The tests are scattered around. The light's on. Water's running somewhere on the floor. If Ilia turns on the water, will it run too? Down into the sink, like usual? If he wants it badly enough, will it run the other way? If he closes his eyes hard enough, will he wake up? In intensive care or at home. Or on New Year. When was the New Year? What date is it today? The free program was somewhere around the thirteenth. February. Exactly. February the thirteenth. And tomorrow will be the fourteenth. Probably. Or maybe tomorrow will never come? If he wants it badly enough.
Maybe if Ilia closes his eyes, he'll open them somewhere else. Maybe it won't be cold or painful, because that tiled floor and that far-away ceiling don't exist, and those tests and the pain don't exist either.
So he closes his eyes. And he hears water somewhere far, far away. He also hears a knocking sound, a familiar knocking sound, growing louder and louder—
And then another knock. Even louder, more ringing, very close. Ilia has to open his eyes, and find himself still in the same bathroom. The ceiling above him is still just as high. The lamp is a little blinding.
"Илья!" ("Ilia!")
The sounds form his name. Ilia. Ilia is a clot of water and fat somewhere in the cranium, and also incomprehensible fingers, a hip that should ache, feet that should jump, and eyes that, no matter how many times you close them, will still see the same picture. And Ilia is also a sudden absence of fear, pain, and everything that makes a person alive. Ilia is the absence of life. Maybe he really is dead. Maybe this is his own voice, and he won't even recognize it.
"Илья, ты тут?" ("Ilia, are you here?")
Ilia is here. Sort of. Where here is? In the bathroom? Where else could he be? He tried to be not here, but it didn't work; no matter how hard he squinted, he was still here. There must be something there. There where he's not now. If he were there, would life have more meaning?
Where is it, that there? On the ice it was here, in the room now it's here, at home it was here too. But now home is there, far away, and Ilia isn't there, because Ilia is always here, wherever he is, he's here, and he'll never be there.
"Миша с тобой?" ("Is Misha with you?")
Миша. Миша (Misha. Misha). Four letters, such a strange word, in English there are five, there is no letter sh at all[note] ([in russian sound "sh" is "ш", in one letter. so "Misha" is written like "Миша" with four letters]). Misha. Misha-sha, if you say it together with the last name. Misha. Misha. If you say the word for too long, it loses all meaning. Misha. Misha.
Misha.
The tiles before his eyes are white. The tests are white. Everything is white, even, perhaps, his face. Ilia closes his eyes, trying not to see anything anymore. He can no longer hear the water. He can no longer hear the pounding. It seems as if if he opens his eyes, he'll find himself on a skating rink — because now he can hear muffled pops, or maybe it's his phone vibrating in his pocket, or maybe it's ringing in his ears.
Миша. (Misha.)
Ilia remembers the dark, shaggy hair beneath his hand. He doesn't remember how it felt because he was wearing gloves, but he does remember it because he's already memorized it. Those dark eyes, deep, as if always looking into his soul and understanding what Ilia is thinking. And feeling. If only someone would fucking understand what Ilia is thinking and feeling now. Does Ilia even feel anything at all?
He leans on his hands, rises to his knees, and suddenly something drips onto the floor near his palms. At first, Ilia thinks the shower has turned on by itself or the ceiling has leaked, and he doesn't even have the strength to check — he can't lift his head. But the dripping gets worse, and his vision becomes blurred. He reaches up to his face and realizes it's his eyes, not the ceiling, that are leaking.
Миша. (Misha.)
Two syllables, four letters. Dark eyes. Soft, warm touches. It wasn't dad who said it was an honor to share the ice with him. And it wasn't Raf. It seemed he said something else, this Misha. Or did—
Through the haze of water in his eyes, Ilia sees a piece of paper with two stripes. A large tear falls on it, and the stripes distort, joining together.
Миша с тобой? (Is Misha with you?)
No. Ilia is here alone. Here. And Misha is there. Somewhere. Not here. Misha. The boy with dark eyes. Warm. Kind. Misha—
Misha.
Ilia can't get past that name. It seems to embody everything. He can't remember why, though — a few more drops fall on the test, and Ilia smears them with his fingers.
Wet.
And it's cold.
He feels coldness. The tiles are cold, his hands are cold, his tears are cold too. And suddenly it turns out that the fabric of his pants isn't so thick, and his legs are cold, and his butt is cold, and his head is cold. And his hip hurts. His forearm, which he's clutched almost to the point of bleeding, hurts too.
His face hurts. His eyes. His cheeks are wet and cold, too, and he can't see clearly because of the tears, and why is he crying? Because inside, too, it hurts so, so, so much, it hurts everywhere, everywhere he looks, and Ilia is completely broken, no amount of tape will help him, just as it won't help that first test, the scraps of which lie around him. Among the same tests, only whole. Absolutely identical. The simplest piece of paper with two dark stripes.
Миша с тобой? (Is Misha with you?)
Ilia chokes on his breath. There's a lump in his throat. His mouth tastes salty — tears are streaming down his face, and he can't wipe them away. And there's no point.
He lifts his hand from the floor — it's shaking so much, it feels like it belongs to no one. It won't obey him. Ilia lifts it awkwardly. Pale. There are still five fingers on it. So he's not sleeping. Fuck. He really wishes he could wake up right now.
He places his hand on his stomach, over his sweatshirt. The sweatshirt itself is thick, maybe even thicker than his pants, but his palm seems to burn through it. Burns to the flesh, to the bone, right through. As if, if he presses hard enough, he could grab his own spine.
The stomach under his hand is completely ordinary. Just a stomach. His stomach. It seems. Is it his?
His hand is shaking. It falls. Ilia jerks it up again. His lungs are gasping for air. No, it's not his hand that's shaking, it's his whole body. His stomach is shaking too, shaking so hard, as if there's something there to shake, and Ilia hasn't puked out all his insides.
Why did he buy the tests this morning? Why? What was he thinking? Why today? Why not tomorrow? Why not at least this evening, after the skate? Why did he stop by early in the morning, before practice, before meeting his dad, before everything — at a 24-hour pharmacy, his phone almost dead and barely figuring out how to pay. And then he walked to his room, while the boxes were shaking in his bag, he bought several at once, spat out the first number he could think of in Italian, and didn't count them. And he didn't do it right away, because that would have meant admitting to himself that it was real and signing his own death warrant. Right before the most important skate of his life. But he signed it anyway — it became real the moment he stepped through the pharmacy's door.
And then on ice. When he got out there alone, right to the very center, when he took the starting position. Then the noise in his head died down, the YouTube video finally ended at three in the morning, and silence fell. And that silence was filled with thoughts — and the thoughts were such that he felt like falling over and banging his head on that ice.
He knew it. He fucking knew it all, he just didn't want to believe it and didn't want to think about it either. If you think about it, it will become real. He almost fucking managed it. Both with not thinking and with the Olympics. Okay, he barely ate and was close to fainting more often than not, but he managed it. He skated. He could’ve fallen on almost every jump and still come first. He could’ve. But his body — a car in which the brake and gas pedals were mixed up; or he forgot which was which in the first place — failed, it stopped obeying. It stopped obeying six weeks ago. When fucking everything was supposed to go the way it was supposed to. But it didn't.
Ilia's not an idiot. When you've been throwing up nonstop for three weeks and barely eating, when practically every smell around you suddenly irritates you, when for the first time in years you stop drinking chocolate milk before bed because it makes you even more nauseous — when all this is happening, it's hard not to guess exactly when and what went horribly wrong. Every minute. But admitting it to yourself isn't so easy. Admitting it when the Olympics hang like the sword of Damocles over you, where you're the clear favorite and millions of people are discussing you, is even harder.
Perhaps somewhere in the back of his mind, he longed to know this after the gold medal. When all that remained was quintuple jumps and beating Nathan's score records. When, overall, it wouldn't kill him — when it wouldn't be so disgustingly pathetic, stupid, and embarrassing. When he wouldn't have to stare at his hands as if they belonged to someone else, and try to claw at his stomach just to feel something.
To squeeze his own heart in his palms. To see it — it hasn't stopped yet, it's beating, faster, faster, faster, as if he hadn't left the ice, but was still skating. And his tears flow, flow, freeze, healing the furrows left by the skates beneath him, and it's so cold, so cold, and these tears freeze in stripes across his face.
Vile tears. And snot. Ilia can't breathe. He's suffocating. There's so disgustingly little room in his chest for his lungs. Soon there will be even less room, until he's torn apart from the inside — blood, guts, more snot and tears. Ilia — a lump of water and fat in his skull — will cease to exist. He wishes that moment would come sooner. It's unbearable to live in a world where he's no longer alone in this body. In this broken car, hurtling off a cliff. Another passenger, whom Ilia hadn't noticed when he planned his final drive. And now they look at each other through the long, bottomless eyes of the test—
Misha has dark eyes. Brown. Misha has dark hair and a beautiful smile — and Misha is terrifyingly, impossibly, unbearably beautiful, and Ilia loves him so much, and this love sits with him in the car, hurtling toward the bottom of the cliff, faster, faster, faster, accelerating with every second. This love looks at him through Misha's eyes, and Ilia wants to tear out his own — to stop seeing it, to stop feeling it, to be thrown out the windshield—
"Илья!" ("Ilia!")
And Ilia is sitting on the bathroom floor, on the cold floor, and he can barely see from the tears, shaking, as if he's about to fall out of his own body, which has become so alien that he can't even manage simple actions. Had he always had a tongue in his mouth? Where should he put it? He'd love to rip his tongue out, so he could never speak again, so he could never ask for anything, and then rip out his ears, eardrums included, so he could never hear anything either.
Not hearing the sound of his own name or the knock on the door. Not hearing his thoughts. Not thinking them — if only he could stick a toothbrush into his eye socket and damage the neural connections in his brain so that he would no longer be aware of fear, horror, or pain, so that he would no longer be afraid of anything, just as he had been afraid just minutes ago. And now he was afraid — so afraid that, without looking, he pressed his fingers hard into the bruise on his thigh, so that the physical pain would become stronger than the fear.
And stronger than awareness — that's it. That’s it. That's it, fucking hell, wave goodbye, Ilyushka, to your dreams, if you still remember them, if your brains haven't been smashed on the ice, wave your tests at them, a whole bunch of them, like a fan, wave at all people who envy you and who adore you, at your achievements and jumps. Wave, wave, until your arms fall off, because now you can't go back there, to this ice, because fuck you, Ilyushka, go fuck yourself off this ice, off any ice, throw away your skates or charge them at your head, maybe it will get easier and you'll finally stop bothering everyone. You'll stop listening to the frustrated sighs of the crowd, you'll stop seeing that fucking eighth place on the scoreboard. Dad will stop sighing in frustration and looking at you sympathetically. You won't have to look mom in the eye, or Lizka, who will ask, "why did you fuck up that much, brother?" She won't ask that, of course, but she’ll think it, she’ll definitely think it, because he really did fuck up, in every sense at once, not to waste time on trifles — and they will all look at him, everyone will talk, everyone will think: why did you let us all down? Why did you make so many promises, swear that everything was under control, everything was fine, said "why are you trying to teach me, I already know, leave me the fuck alone". All that remains now is to shut his fucking mouth and cut out his own insides with a chainsaw, fill them with superglue, and his heart too, maybe then he will be able to achieve that aerodynamics where he stops falling from the simplest jumps, maybe then he will finally be alone in a falling car. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Ilia just wants to cease to exist.
And he needs to stop lying to himself. He needs to be honest with someone, damn it, because self-deception is what led to this evening. He could have confessed everything earlier, at least yesterday or before the short program, so as not to embarrass himself in front of the cameras and the crowd, so he could have jumped from somewhere high enough, and so that people would think of him with sadness, not mockery — though he's lying to himself here too, and they would’ve thought of him with mockery even then, only now he's stretched out his weaknesses, fears, and pains to everyone, saying: here's where to press to make me bleed. Before this, only one person besides Ilia himself had the keys to this car, and he could’ve climbed inside, even into the driver's seat, and Ilia wouldn't have said a word. But now they've slashed the tires, scratched it with nails and screwdrivers, broken the windows. And Ilia sits and cuts himself on the broken glass like a fool, and he even cuts his ch—
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—
He hears the click of the lock.
And then the quiet, stifled crying stops. A new one begins — he's overwhelmed by such a wave of primal terror, panic, that he can barely open his eyes, trying to find a way out in a world made up of crooked lines and floating objects. Any way out, any way, just not there, into the room, anywhere, fucking anywhere, even flushing himself down the toilet or jumping into a kingdom of crooked mirrors[note] ([soviet children’s book where a girl steps in a mirror and meets her counterpart which is opposite to her in every way. for Ilia that counterpart’s name will be Aili, and Ilia imagines that he himself is the worse version of the two of them]), where everything will definitely be better, because Ilia is his own worst version, and the Aili in his reflection has definitely not fucked up now surely the only Olympics of his life and hasn’t gotten himself fucking pregnant right before it. He hasn't fuck up in just about everything possible — will the shower curtain hold up so he can hang himself on it? Right fucking now. So he can avoid looking into anyone’s eyes. So no one can see him.
He jumps up. His body refuses to obey, his legs give way, he's about to fall, and the tests look up at him mockingly. His heart is pounding like crazy, he can't breathe. Now, finally, the signals from his brain will stop flowing where they need to, and that blissful, empty void awaits him—
A moment before the bathroom door opens, he suddenly, out of place and completely uncalled for, realizes that if he's sitting in this car hurtling down the cliff, not alone now, but with love looking at him with Misha's dark eyes, then he won't push it out, won't force it to open the doors, won't kick it out the window. No, they'll fall to the bottom together, and Ilia will look into those eyes because they're Misha's, those eyes, and there will never be anything in the world that Ilia will love more than Misha's eyes. And even if the seat belt keeps him from flying through the windshield, he'll drag that love out of the burning car with him. Because now he remembers how those eyes looked at him when it seemed that nothing in the world could be worse than that fucking eight on the big screen; and then, however, it turned out that it could very well be worse — after all, he’s feeling worse now, and the car’s still falling, which means: it could be even worse than now and it definitely will be. Just about now, when that door opens and comes the person who would now hate Ilia, the person Ilia had let down so much, more than anything in the world (okay, Ilia had let down someone else more than anything in the world, and he hoped never to see him again, because the car would soon fall). When Ilia would have to look into his eyes — and not see them, because he can't fucking see anything, only tears, and he can’t fucking speak, not because he’s finally bitten his tongue off, but because he’s fucking forgotten how, apparently. To speak. Well, that's fortunate. Because he has nothing to say. Except, maybe — я тебе в жизни об этом не признаюсь, но я уже все для себя решил. Даже если машина падает, я буду в ней не один. Да, все так, пап. Я планирую уехать в горы и не вернуться. (I'd never admit this to you, but I've already made up my mind. Even if the car falls, I won't be alone in it. Yeah, that's it, dad. I plan to go to the mountains and never come back.)
"Илья, ты…" ("Ilia, you—")
The voice breaks off mid-sentence. Ilia stands there, leaning his hand on the wall, his legs half-bent, his gaze fixed on the floor. Everything blurs, he hears more than sees the door freeze, the person in the doorway freeze, and his whole body spasms, because it's one thing to be hysterical alone, and quite another to have that solitude disturbed.
Especially by his father, who apparently got tired of waiting for an answer from behind the door and hastened to make sure his son hadn't hung himself from the ledge. But Ilia disappoints him time and again — and he hasn't even tied the noose for it yet.
He's shaking. Blinking furiously at tears, he looks at his dad’s face. Frightened, surprised — he sees the moment his dad’s gaze falls to the floor, and how it instantly changes.
There's nothing worse than disappointing someone you love. Letting them down. Ilia fucking bullshitted, rolling his eyes, fuck, why didn’t he sew his mouth shut, because dad was right, dad was always right in the end, and Ilia doesn't want to see the disappointment and horror in his eyes any more than he wants to breathe. His lungs desperately try to open, but they can't, because his throat is flooded with tears and snot, and when his dad looks up at him, Ilia can't see him anymore, only cries, sobbing, and from a cautious step in his direction, he jumps back, slamming into the wall.
"Ты меня ненавидишь?" ("You hate me?") he barely manages to say. Well, not say. Scream. His voice is breaking, hoarse, and it's unclear how words even form from these sounds. It comes out more as a question than a statement, so he repeats, "ты меня ненавидишь! Ты меня убьешь!" ("you hate me! You'll kill me!")
His voice is breaking with hysteria. He can’t even comprehend what he’s saying anymore, he’s just screaming, sobbing loudly. He’s never been so scared. Walking out onto the Olympic ice under the gaze of the crowd isn’t as scary as admitting to his father that he’s fucked up. Who now knows — he saw, he understood, and even if he'd felt sorry for Ilia before, now Ilia showed himself in all his glory — an irresponsible, talentless idiot who'd been asked not to do just one thing, and he still let everyone down. His dad. His mom. Raf. M—
Instead of words, an inhuman howl bursts from his mouth. A wail, as if an animal had been driven into a corner. Ilia feels like an animal now, a cat that has been torn apart by dogs and now won't let anyone near it. Only there weren't any dogs — they told him, Ilyusha, don't claw at yourself; and he slashed his stomach with his sharp claws. And now he needs stitches at an expensive clinic. It would be easier to throw him out on the street, to die of hunger in a ditch or get hit by a car. Nobody will feel sorry anymore — it's all his own fault, after all.
He did it to himself. No one forced him. He trusted the pills, and you can never fucking trust anyone. There's a reason he doesn't take anything from strangers at competitions, even packaged food. And he especially can't fucking trust himself — what made him think he's trustworthy?
And they trusted him. They trusted him, but he fucked up, fucked up, fucked up, let everyone down, and when they throw him out the door by the scruff, they'll be right about everything, because he should have handled it, he had to, but he's a complete fool, an idiot, idiot, a complete moron, there's no other way to put it, they relied on him, but he— but he—
Dad is saying something. Ilia hears sounds through the haze — quiet, precise, but they're indistinguishable. He's saying something, but Ilia doesn't let him get close, because if he does, he'll shatter into tiny pieces. Because he doesn't deserve this. He deserves to be abandoned, to be seen by no one, to never have anyone do anything good for him, because that would lead to this—
Dad says something again. Ilia shakes his head, jerks his hand away as if from fire, and it truly feels like everything around him burns — his lungs are burning when he can't breathe, his face is burning from crying, his throat is burning, his arms and legs are burning from the bruises. He feels so awful, he's never felt so bad, he's never been so scared. He cries and cries and cries, and doesn't even feel it when dad finally takes his hand and pulls Ilia towards him.
There's no strength to resist. He also has no strength to comprehend reality. A hand finds its way into his hair, stroking him softly, measuredly, tenderly, in a way Ilia doesn't deserve, and he wants to break free, because he has no right to this caress, but his body finally refuses to obey — it surrenders. It's hard for him to stand, and he leans his whole weight against dad. It's scary, terrifyingly scary, but dad means safety, and Ilia hides his tear-stained face and sobs in his shoulder.
Safety. It's when nothing bad will happen because there's someone near who will protect you — but how can you be protected from yourself? How can anyone save Ilia from his own stupidity, from his own body? How can anyone help him? If only Ilia knew.
And yet, in his dad's arms, it feels like nothing terrible will ever find him. Ilia is already an adult, of course—an adult even in his own country—but here he's a little boy, five years old again, no more, and the darkness terrifies him. Right now, it seems like salvation — salvation from himself, an escape. And in this darkness, he sits, small, hunched over, his face buried in his hands, and Ilia thinks that the person he's failed most isn't his dad, or his mom, or _____, but rather this little boy who just wanted to skate.
And dad strokes his head. His back. He says something, and Ilia finally understands his words.
"Все хорошо, Илюш, все хорошо. Все будет в порядке, слышишь? Обязательно. Я тебя люблю." ("It's okay, Ilyusha, it's okay. Everything will be alright, do you hear me? It will. I love you.")
Ilia cries even harder, though it seemed impossible. He hugs his dad back, as tightly as his weak, unresponsive arms can manage. Dad continues talking, quietly, stroking his back, and Ilia so deeply doesn't deserve a single word of this—
"Прости," ("I’m sorry,") he croaks. "Прости. Прости, прости меня, прости, прости, прости…" ("I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—")
This word seems out of place[note] ([in russian the word for apologizing is "prosti" which is a part of "prosti menya", "forgive me". Ilia thinks it sounds like he’s not apologizing but more asks for forgiveness even though he doesn’t deserve it]). As if he's not apologizing, not regretting, as if he's asking, demanding forgiveness. As if there's no option not to forgive. But he asks, asks, asks, saying the word until it loses all meaning in his head, just like Misha's name.
"Прости," ("I’m sorry,") a sob. "Прости. Я не хотел… я не знал…" ("I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know—")
He's lying. He's lying, he wanted to, he knew, he could, and the easiest way out of this situation would’ve been to stop acting like a carefree idiot, like a horny teenager, and at least use his head a little. But dad kept talking and talking and repeating himself, and Ilia didn't listen, because he always knows best, and he doesn't even have an alarm for his pills, even though he counts them, and anyway, what's the point of being safe when you can simply destroy your entire life and force your body to fail you at the very moment it absolutely shouldn't have to fail. When he doesn't even have the chance to say, "but I'm an Olympic champion now." No, fuck him, that’s it. He just fucked up, fucked up everything.
"Все хорошо," ("Everything’s okay,") Dad says again. "Я всегда буду с тобой. И мама. Мы тебя очень любим, любого любим, и все обязательно будет хорошо." ("I’ll always be with you. And mom. We love you very much, we love any of you, and everything will be okay.")
That's not what dad should say. Dad should say, "я же говорил тебе, я же тебя предупреждал, ты же обещал мне, что все слышишь и понимаешь, что будешь ответственно себя вести.” ("I told you so, I warned you, you promised me you heard everything and understood, that you would act responsibly.") Dad should say that, but dad speaks warmly, kindly, lovingly, like he always does, like dad, and Ilia doesn't deserve an ounce of his love.
And he strokes Ilia’s back and shoulders, his hair, presses Ilia to him, allowing him to bury his nose in a warm shoulder, allowing him to feel small and defenseless, when he didn’t have to decide anything and think about anything, when he was a child, and now he too—
Ilia forces himself to finish this thought.
Now he'll have a child of his own, a child with Misha's eyes, or Misha's hair, or Misha's nose, or smile, or all three. And with his, Ilia's, eyes, lips, curls, his, Ilia's, personality (god forbid), and laugh. Preferably, though, Misha's laugh; he has a very beautiful laugh. Ilia wouldn't mind if the child was a carbon copy of Misha, to be honest. Better that than being a carbon copy of the worst son and boyfriend in the world.
A child. What a fucking mess. Tiny. Probably just a few cells. A month and a half ago, it was the New Year. It was New Year, and Misha was with him, and Ilia was in heat, and the decisions made in those few days could hardly be called balanced or adequate. It was unclear who exactly to blame — the pills, apparently deciding to give him that one-in-a-hundred chance, or whatever the fine print was supposed to be, Ilia hadn't read because he'd believed it, stupid; Misha (Misha couldn't be blamed for anything), or Ilia himself. His own head, swamped by hormones, his body begging for sex, his soul that wanted only Misha and no one else, the recklessness that had gotten them to have sex without a condom in the first place. He only had himself to blame, and well, Ilia blamed himself — he had nothing better to do.
A child. A tiny one. Because of whom Ilia's insides have been tying themselves into a knot for the last three weeks, trying to jump out of his mouth. A child, probably still without tiny arms and legs, without tiny Misha's eyes. Without five fingers on each hand and foot. A child. His. And Misha's. His and Misha's child. A baby. Fuck. A kid.
A tiny clot of cells that cost him the Olympic gold medal. That cost him the last three weeks. The lost pounds and his deflated ass. A few days next to Misha, because Ilia was either throwing up, or lying around exhausted, or training. He caught worried glances at the rink and didn't go near him, because it seemed like if he approached, if he looked into his eyes, then everything would be fucking over, he'd burst into tears, like he did at the mere sound of his name in his dad's voice. He'd burst into tears and immediately tell everything — and then there would be the two of them, terribly pale, vomiting from nerves, and Misha wouldn't have gotten his medal. Fuck. Ilia immediately imagines: a few years from now (if he doesn't die in the next couple of months), a child with Misha's eyes asks him who his other parent is. And Ilia tells him. That his dad is the most wonderful and beautiful person in the world, with the most beautiful laugh and smile, that he's the best thing that ever happened to Ilia, and that Ilia fucked him up, just like he fucked up everything in his life, that Ilia let him down terribly — though you shouldn't tell a little kid that, so he'll say his father is an Olympic champion, a real one, that he's the best in the world. On the planet. And the little person with Misha's eyes will ask: so how did you let him slip away, dad? And Ilia will cry, cry again, because that little clot of cells cost him not only a medal and a few pounds, it cost him Misha.
Because Misha is a good person, of course, but he won't forgive him for this. Definitely won't. It would be fine if Ilia had listened to common sense screaming at him not to sacrifice his career — and not the pain pounding in his temples that he doesn't want to go back to the ice because it will always be that bad; and not the love that would rather strangle him than let him get rid of something with a piece of Misha in it. Misha won't forgive him if Ilia keeps the child. He will never forgive him. He will hate him, he will sever all ties with him—
"Илюш," ("Ilyush,") says Dad, now gently stroking his neck and the back of his head. "Все хорошо. Все будет хорошо." ("Everything's okay. Everything will be okay.")
Ilia realizes with surprise that he's no longer crying. He's simply run out of tears. His head hurts terribly, throbbing, but at the same time, a strange, quiet calm descends. Resignation. His nervous system is overloaded; it's impossible to cry and scream so much, to experience so much and not pass out. He's empty inside, but he can hear his heartbeat — a broken, pathetic heart that already loves this little lump of cells in his stomach. A stupid heart. And stupid, stupid Ilia.
Dad combs his hair with his hand. Dad kisses his forehead and tells him again that everything will be okay, that he loves him, that he's here and won't go anywhere. Dad strokes his shoulders and back, dad squeezes his hands a little harder, and it hurts, and Ilia winces and says nothing, because he deserves this pain. Then dad leads him to the sink, slowly and carefully. Ilia washes his face slowly, not looking at his reflection, because it seems like it's laughing at him.
Later, dad leads him into a room where things are probably scattered everywhere, but Ilia doesn't see them because he's stumbling blindly until he ends up on the bed. Dad gives him a bottle of water and fixes his hair, and Ilia sits and stares into space, dull as he was when he first came here, only his head is no longer filled with thoughts of sausage fingers and the ceiling, his head is completely empty of any thoughts except tired, dull resignation. About how his old life ended here. About how now there will be a new life. About how when Ilia opens his mouth and says that he can't kill this child — a child who will probably have Misha's eyes; even if they don't, it really doesn't matter — his dad will look at him completely differently. Ilia doesn't see his gaze now, he just knows that it will be different, everything will be different altogether, because Ilia is a complete fool without an ounce of responsibility, and right now that responsibility is worth shouldering. And that's how everyone will remember him — as a whiner and a loser who failed at the Olympics. At his last competition, because he'll have Misha's child later. Without Misha, of course. And these competitions won't be Misha's last — and Ilia will remain just a stage on his path to greater things, to new victories, to a world where Ilia won't have a place. Ilia can't blame him for this — in the end, as always, he's the one to blame for everything.
Dad waits patiently for Ilia to drink some water and then hands him a protein bar. Ilia hasn't eaten in ages, and his poor stomach is unlikely to cope with digestion, but he gratefully and silently accepts the food. Dad doesn't realize how awful he's feeling because Ilia doesn’t talk about it — Ilia always remains silent until it's absolutely unbearable. The protein bar tastes like paper. He drinks water to get rid of the taste.
Dad sits next to him. He doesn't hug him anymore, but he touches their thighs and knees together, brushes their shoulders, and it makes him feel warmer and a little calmer. Maybe, if he's already such a terrible son, they won't kick him out of the house? With the baby. Ilia won't become the mom from the match-three ads? Yes, he'll lose the ice, the media will grind him down so many times that only dust will remain, but maybe he'll still have those who will accept him even like this — even the loser who disappointed everyone, who ruined his career in one fell swoop, in one day, with one idiotic, fleeting decision.
Maybe one day, holding a little child with Misha’s eyes, he'll remember this day and this bed, the bathroom drenched in his tears, the tests on the floor, his dad's shoulder, so warm and comforting to cry on. He'll remember and think: how long ago it was. And how scary. But it's in the past now.
He falls asleep lying under the blanket, holding his dad's hand. He doesn't dream of anything.