Work Text:
Ilia thought he knew what it meant to lose. He’d always thought of it as the exact opposite of winning, the dark side of a medal he never got to wear around his neck. Ilia thought he knew heartbreak, guilt, the grip of a pitch-black terror that wrings the heart until the very last drop of blood is gone. Only now, two days after the end of everything, does Ilia realize he didn’t know a thing.
Only now, as the terrifying white of the ice continues to rush up toward his feet behind his eyelids, and the deafening whistle of the crowd’s applause rings in his ears—only now he realizes what it actually means to lose.
Back in his room, his coach told him that losing is part of the experience. Alysa came to see him the next day; she hugged him and told him there was already an Olympic gold with his name on it, just waiting for him. His father didn't say a word. Then again, silence had always been his favorite punishment.
Ilia hasn't gone out much the past few days. He took a long walk on his floor’s terrace and listened to music buried under the covers in his room. He went downstairs to eat a slice of Margherita pizza and then excused himself from Madison and Amber, who were sitting there with him, to head back up. He told them he was fine and just needed a little time, but time is passing and he can’t erase the screeching sound of blades cutting through the ice from his mind.
On the third night, Ilia goes downstairs to get something to eat. The Olympic Village cafeteria closes at midnight, but right next to it, just outside the door, there’s a row of vending machines with a wide selection of drinks and snacks. He listens to Quiet, The Winter Harbor while waiting for his extra-sugar hot chocolate to dispense, then sneaks back up the stairs with his hood pulled over his head.
Today he skated for the first time since the final, practicing for Saturday night’s Gala. He saw the arena in streaks of light as he prepared to jump, and even though the rink was empty, he felt like he could hear the deafening roar of the crowd.
It wasn't supposed to go this way. Ilia keeps repeating it to himself, as if saying it could change things. It wasn't supposed to go this way, it wasn't supposed to go this way. Gold was so close he only had to take one step to reach it, and with that one step, he managed to destroy everything.
The hallway leading to his room is deserted. Ilia loses himself in the swirl of his thoughts and the song playing in his ears, while the hot chocolate in the paper cup burns his fingertips. He twirls his room key ring around his finger and doesn't notice the door opening and closing behind him, nor the voice calling his name.
Ilia doesn't notice a thing until someone grabs his wrist and gives it a gentle tug. The real world suddenly materializes at the edges of his vision, and at the center of it all is Misha. Ilia feels his heart sink a little lower in his chest at the sight of him. Misha, always Misha, appearing in the middle of the hallway like an angel of death Ilia can’t escape. Ilia hasn't seen him since the night of the final, and it’s like taking a punch straight to the gut.
Misha smiles at him tenderly. He’s an angel of death with good manners, one who gently squeezes his wrist before letting go, as if to make sure Ilia isn't just a hallucination. He’s an angel of death who might just be an angel after all, and Ilia doesn't quite know what to do with that thought.
Misha looks at him and smiles, dimly lit by the low hallway lights. “Hey,” he says, as Ilia pulls out his earbuds. “How are you?”
Ilia shrugs. He wants to take a step back, toward the comforting solitude of his room, and put as much distance as possible between himself and Misha, but he doesn't know how. Not when the warmth of Misha’s fingers hasn't left his wrist yet and his gaze is so tender it hurts. “Good,” he murmurs, uncertain. The chocolate is scalding against his fingers, but Ilia considers it a fitting punishment for the way he reacted to the sight of Misha. For the way his heart seems to want to beat right out of his chest. “I’m fine,” he repeats, having nothing else to say.
Misha nods and then rests a hand on the doorknob of his room. His hair is slicked back and he’s wearing a pair of slide slippers the color of the Kazakh flag. He’s adorable, and Ilia wants to hate him with all his soul, but he can’t. He can't, not when Misha brushes his hair back with his fingers and looks at the chocolate in his hands. “Can’t sleep?”
Ilia shakes his head, switches the paper cup to his other hand, and rubs his burnt fingers against his pants. “You too?”
Misha nods and smiles, as if being unable to sleep were the luckiest thing that’s happened to him lately. “I was thinking of watching a movie,” he says, turning the handle of his door. “Do you want to come in for a bit?”
Ilia nearly spills the chocolate on himself in surprise. He looks at the square of floor between them and then takes a step back, frightened by the turmoil in his chest. Ilia is certain Misha could hear his heart hammering if he just listened closely. He’s certain Misha can already hear it, because he sees the corners of his mouth turn up in an amused smile.
Ilia takes another step back because he doesn't know what else to do. “I’m probably not great company,” he murmurs.
Misha shrugs and tilts his head. “No talk during movies,” he says, and the next moment he’s already disappeared inside the room. A blade of yellow light now spills from the open door onto the dark hallway floor. After two days spent in the darkness of his own mind, lit only by the screen of his phone, that triangle of light looks like the sun to Ilia.
Misha’s smiling face pops back out from behind the door. “Well?” he says, and disappears again.
Ilia looks around for just a second and then slips inside the room, because he can't do otherwise. Because Misha’s smile is so bright it manages to momentarily erase the image of the arena spotlights.
The room is like his own, with the only difference being that the gold medal Ilia didn't win is sitting on the nightstand. It glitters under the ceiling light in a way Ilia can't stand. He has an identical one from the team event, but this is different. This one belongs to Misha, who is looking at him from the bed with an expression Ilia can't quite read.
“Sorry,” he says, embarrassed, tearing his eyes away from the medal to look at Misha. “Maybe this isn't a great id—”
“Stay for a bit,” Misha interrupts, moving over on the bed to make room for him. Misha crosses his legs and leans his back against the Kazakh flag hanging on the wall behind him. His braces glint blue as Misha opens the laptop on his lap.
“How about Kung Fu Panda?”
Ilia wrinkles his nose. “Kung Fu Panda?” he asks. “You don't have anything better to suggest?”
Misha raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” he says, shocked. “Everyone knows there is nothing better than Kung Fu Panda.”
Ilia laughs and hardly notices he’s doing it. He only sees Misha’s eyes drop to his mouth and his smile grow wider, his shoulders relaxing a bit against the flag. Ilia sits down next to him and kicks off his shoes so he can cross his legs. “I have my doubts,” he says. “But okay.”
Misha does a little victory dance and then scoots to the left so they can both see the screen.
Ilia feels Misha’s warmth brush his arm when their shoulders bump and then separate. He sees himself and Misha standing before the world, locked in an embrace Ilia can't get out of his head, even though he wants to.
“Wait, let me turn off the light,” Ilia says at the last second, before Misha hits play. If Ilia sits an inch closer to Misha when he gets back on the bed, it’s only because he wants to see better, and not because he’s spent the last two days replaying that hug, the feeling of Misha’s hair against his fingers, and the way his breath brushed his neck. Ilia keeps telling himself that until Po is at the top of the temple stairs, and then Misha shifts and leans his shoulder against Ilia’s, leaving it there. Then Ilia stops thinking about Po, or the medal, or the stupid excuse for why he sat so close to Misha. He only feels the heat radiating from where their arms touch, traveling down to his elbow and into the palm of his hand, which rubs against Misha’s bedspread searching for relief, but even that is soaked in his warmth.
Ilia keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, watching the images move without really seeing them. Misha moves again, turning his neck to stretch, and lingers on him for a few seconds longer than necessary. Ilia feels his gaze slide over his face and can almost see the lights reflecting in Misha’s eyes out of the corner of his own.
The second time Misha looks at him, Ilia can’t stay still. He fidgets with his fingers, takes a long sip of the now-lukewarm chocolate, and tilts his head to force himself to focus on the movie, in vain.
Later in the film, when Ilia is a bundle of nerves, Misha reaches for his hands and slides the paper cup away, then takes a sip of the chocolate. Ilia nudges him with his shoulder. “Hey! That’s mine,” he says, laughing.
Misha gives it back without a word, and the movie starts up again, and Ilia fights himself to stay focused. He manages for a few moments, until Shifu discovers Po can do the splits, and Misha nudges him with his elbow and says he’d do that and more for a couple of cookies. Ilia laughs, turns toward Misha, and finds him already there, watching him. The colors from the screen shimmer on his braces, in the lens of his eyes, and Ilia doesn't know where to look. He clears his throat and hopes Misha looks away, but he doesn't.
“What?” Ilia finally asks, unnerved, unable to think about anything but Misha’s elbow against his and the blue dancing across his face.
Misha seems to snap out of it. He turns back toward the computer screen and the blue on his cheeks turns to purple, the smile a faint memory on his lips. “Nothing,” he says. “I was right, wasn't I? There’s nothing better than Kung Fu Panda.”
Ilia clicks his tongue. “I can name at least ten movies better than Kung Fu Panda,” he says.
Misha makes a pained face. “Actually, maybe you should just leave,” he replies, laughing as he says it. The movie keeps playing in the background, but Ilia has already seen it a few times, and this—Misha, pressed against him like this, smiling and sweet and perfect—he’s never seen this before.
The movie goes on and Ilia stays stuck in that moment, just as he’s been stuck for two days in the memory of the performance that cost him the Olympic medal, standing frozen with his hands in his hair in front of the whole world.
Ilia looks away suddenly. “You don't have to do this,” he murmurs.
Misha doesn't stop the movie, even though it’s clear neither of them is following it anymore. “Do what?”
“This,” he says, gesturing to himself. “Shouldn't you be out celebrating? This is supposed to be the best week of your life.”
Misha doesn't say anything for a long moment, and then he hits the spacebar. Tigress freezes in the middle of a sentence, and suddenly it’s so quiet Ilia’s ears ring. “I celebrated,” he says. “I don't feel like it anymore. There are more important things.”
Ilia doesn't believe it for a second. “More important than Olympic gold?”
Misha seems to think about it for a second, then smiles, shaking his head, and the light from the computer reflects in a cascade of sparks in his laughter. “Okay, maybe not,” he admits.
Ilia nods, takes another sip of chocolate, and then leans over to set the cup on the floor at the foot of the bed. “There’s nothing more important,” he whispers, his eyes involuntarily darting to the medal on the nightstand. “And I threw it away.”
Misha doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands or where to look, and Ilia wonders for a long moment why he’s still here, seeking comfort from the one person he should stay away from.
Misha takes a deep breath and then smiles, but this time it’s a faint smile, with his eyes downcast and his head tilted just slightly. “Do you hate me?” he asks quietly. “For... for...”
Ilia shakes his head before Misha can get any more words out. “No,” he says. “Of course not.” Ilia doesn't think he’s capable of hating him. He’s had the chance over the years as they grew up gravitating around each other, and sometimes he even tried, but Misha is like a persistent vine that you just end up loving.
Ilia presses his shoulder against Misha’s to force him to look at him, and Misha does. Big brown eyes reflecting the darkness of the room and the feelings Ilia can feel sloshing around in his chest. He tries to smile, but he doesn't think he’s very convincing. “I’m glad you won,” he says. “I wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else,” he adds, and if his eyes fill with tears as he says it, it’s because it’s the truth, and the truth always hurts. It’s because he ruined everything and he doesn’t even have the chance to make up for it.
Misha flinches as soon as he notices his tears. “Hey,” he says, turning his body to face him better. “Don't cry,” he murmurs, and as he does, he reaches up and rests his hand on Ilia’s cheek. It’s just as warm as his shoulder, like the mark of his lips left on the rim of the hot chocolate cup.
Ilia turns his face slightly, not knowing if he’s trying to escape the touch or lean into it, and lets Misha wipe his face with his thumb. Then he sighs and smiles. “I’m sorry,” he sobs.
Misha doesn't let go. “Stop saying you’re sorry. It’s okay.”
Ilia shakes his head weakly and tries to swallow the anguish, but he’s been doing that for two days and it’s starting to taste bitter. “I wish that were true,” he whispers.
Misha slides his hand into Ilia’s hair and pulls his head onto his shoulder, and Ilia follows the movement without resistance. He rests his forehead on Misha’s shoulder and inhales weakly, the cold air scratching the back of his throat. Tears flood his face and Ilia loses himself in the rise and fall of Misha’s chest, following the rhythm of his breathing while images come to life behind his eyelids in the dark room. His father with his hands in his hair, the faces behind the American flags, and then Misha sitting in the kiss and cry with his mouth open. His shocked smile, his eyes darting toward him, and his breath against his ear as he says Ilia, Ilia.
“Ilia.” Misha calls his name. “Ilia, look at me,” he says, the 'L' in his name shaped by his Russian accent.
Ilia does, because his father says his name the same way. And because the way Misha says it is so much sweeter, so much kinder, and Ilia doesn't think he’ll ever be able to forget it.
“Sorry,” he repeats, wiping his face with his wrists. “I’m ruining your night and now I’ve gotten your hoodie all wet and... and I–”
That’s when Misha runs an open hand through his hair to brush it away from his face, moving from his temple to the back of his neck, warm and light as the first ray of sun after winter. Ilia shivers and stops talking, stops thinking, and maybe even stops existing. Misha’s fingers stop at the base of his neck and then slide onto his shoulder and squeeze, bringing him back to reality. Back to the pressure of their bodies pressed against each other and Misha’s hands against his face, holding together the pieces that are left of him.
“Don’t apologize,” Misha whispers, so softly that Ilia sees the words on his lips before he hears them. “Not to me.”
Ilia feels his breath hitch as his heart pumps oxygen and adrenaline to every last capillary in his body. This is how he feels before every competition, before knowing if the ice under his blades will be a friend or a rival. He feels the same way with Misha, with the only difference being that Misha is always a rival, but tonight is different. Tonight, Misha’s eyes trace his face gently, large and dark from the surrounding shadows, and Ilia doesn't know what to do except return the gesture and lean in just enough to feel Misha’s breath against his face, to see his lips part at the movement.
Misha’s hand has slid down his arm, gripping his forearm as if he’s afraid he’ll crumble into dust. Ilia meets his touch, leaning forward until their cheeks brush and Misha’s hair tickles his forehead.
“Sorry,” Ilia whispers into his ear, before pulling back and pressing his mouth to Misha’s.
Misha tightens his grip on his arm and opens his lips with a moan Ilia feels in his bones. Misha’s other hand ends up in his hair again, brushing it back while the back of Ilia’s neck erupts in shivers. Misha tastes like chocolate and is so warm Ilia feels like he’s catching fire. He runs his fingers down Misha’s sides to the hem of his hoodie and then back up, behind his back and into his messy hair.
“Ilia,” Misha murmurs, breathless. He tilts his head and opens his lips wider to slide his tongue against Ilia’s, slowly, tugging gently on his hair to make him tilt his neck. They’re both on their knees now, tangled together with their legs sinking into the mattress and their chests heaving out of control. “Ilia...”
Ilia sees white behind his squeezed-shut eyelids. He sees Misha’s contours as he maps them with his fingertips. The slope of his shoulder, the curve of his bicep, the line of his spine. “Say my name again,” he asks. They breathe in unison into each other’s breath, mouths open to catch air. “Say it. Ilia, Ilia.”
Misha cups Ilia's face in his hands and kisses him slowly. Against his lips, with his teeth touching Ilia’s, Misha says his name. Ilia, Ilia, Ilia. Between kisses, with his fingers threaded through Ilia’s hair and his chest pressed against his. Ilia closes his eyes and lets Misha take away some of his pain. And in exchange he takes something else, something that tastes like relief on Misha’s burning lips.
Misha wraps his arms around him; he’s strong, and he’s everything Ilia has ever wanted when Misha pulls him close, when he falls back onto the mattress and welcomes him between his open legs. He still has his name on his lips and his stomach is covered in goosebumps when Ilia slides a hand under his hoodie to touch his skin. Misha cups Ilia’s face with his palms to guide him into another kiss. “You taste like tears,” he says against his mouth. He brushes his cheek with a kiss and Ilia closes his eyes at the feeling, at the searing heat of Misha’s chest against his after three days of total freezing cold. Misha’s lips tremble slightly against his temple as he whispers again Ilia, Ilia.
Ilia seeks out his mouth one last time, kissing him gently, without rushing, and then lies down at his side, squeezed between Misha’s body and the Kazakh flag on the wall. Misha rolls onto his side and runs light fingers up Ilia’s arm, passing over his shoulder, his neck, and the pulsing point on his throat.
His figure is little more than a silhouette in the dark, but Ilia can almost see him when Misha whispers: “Hold me.”
Ilia doesn't hesitate for a second. He lifts his arm and drapes it over Misha’s side, pulling him close, legs and arms and breaths woven together inseparably.
For the first time since the competition ended, Ilia feels like a person again. He feels Misha’s breath on his cheek and his knee pressing annoyingly against his thigh. It’s perfect; it’s more than he knows he deserves.
Misha sighs softly. “You hugged me,” he murmurs.
Ilia nods, because he knows Misha is talking about the hug after the long program. Ilia did it because Misha was so close, pressing his hands to his mouth in disbelief. He did it because it was the right thing to do, and because he wanted to. He still wants to; he wants everything Misha is willing to give him.
Ilia nods. “Olympic gold. How long did it take you to realize it?”
Misha scoots even closer and rests his forehead against Ilia’s chest. His voice is muffled and low when he says, “I don't know. Everyone congratulated me, but in the days after, it felt like it was just expected. I never felt the way I felt when you hugged me.”
Ilia strokes his back, up and down along his vertebrae, counting them one by one, mapping the surface. “Is that why you asked me to come in?” he says absently. He’s already thinking about tomorrow, about the sunlight hitting Misha’s sleeping face, his hair spread across the pillow, the laptop left abandoned at the foot of the bed.
Misha nods slowly against his chest. “I wanted...” a deep breath, and then Misha’s lips against his, speaking straight to his heart. “The first thing I truly knew was your arms,” he says, and then a kiss, sweet as the deadliest poison. “I wanted to go back to them.”
As he falls asleep, Ilia doesn't see spotlights or unknown faces, but gold—gold everywhere.