misha’s panda suit

Summary: Y/N’s goals for Stars on Ice are straightforward: keep her Olympic heartbreak neatly compartmentalized, survive six weeks on tour, and absolutely do not fall in love with Ilia Malinin. It’s a solid plan. Unfortunately, reality has other ideas.

Author’s note: hey divas. Let me know what yall think. I have had this idea for a while and am excited to see where it goes. This is my first time writing x reader!

Chapter 1: (3.6k words)

You were not excited for the Stars on Ice Tour.

Well, that wasn't entirely true.

You were initially pleased—and a little shocked—when your agent told you that Stars on Ice had offered you a spot on the tour.

The 2025–26 season had been a huge disappointment. It was a season littered with injuries, inconsistent performances, and constant pressure to just tough it out. It was Olympic season, after all. If there was ever a time to push through the pain, this was it.

All of it culminated in a disaster at U.S. Nationals in January. During your free skate, you fell so hard that you had to be helped off the ice before the program was over. You never even got the chance to finish.

The worst part was that the previous few seasons had been good. Really good. You had made the podium at U.S. Nationals the year before and had even won a couple of Grand Prix events. Still, after failing to finish at Nationals and struggling internationally throughout the season, you weren't surprised when you weren't named to the U.S. Olympic Team.

Devastated, yes. Surprised, no.

A decade and a half of hard work felt like it had amounted to nothing. Moving away from your parents at thirteen to live with your grandmother so you could have access to better coaching and training facilities. Countless hours spent at the rink before school, after school, and on weekends.

Of course, deep down, you knew it wasn't all for nothing.

Before this season, you had been a relatively successful skater. You had titles, medals, and a small but loyal group of fans who swore you were underrated and consistently underscored. And your career wasn't over.

But ever since you were a little girl, you had dreamed of going to the Olympics.

Representing your country in a way few athletes ever get the chance to. Competing alongside the best skaters in the world. Being part of something bigger than yourself—a celebration of sport, community, and excellence.

Being so close to that dream, only to watch it slip away, hurt more than you could put into words.

Watching girls you had grown close to achieve the goal you had spent your entire life chasing hurt too.

You had always known that Amber, Alysa, and you couldn't all make the team. There were only three spots available, and all three of you had spent years battling for them. Even so, some part of you had always believed you would find a way onto that Olympic roster.

Instead, you found yourself sitting in a hospital bed, watching the announcement on a screen and realizing that your dream would remain exactly that—a dream

So, all of this to say you were a little hesitant going back on tour. You were one of 3 skaters going on the tour that was not a part of the Olympic Team. And Jacob was not even signed up for the full run, unlike you who was slated for every date, he was only joining a couple of shows. And Jason Brown had more than proved why he deserved to be there.

You were unsure how it was going to feel every night seeing the Olympic Team's gold-medal program - a sore reminder of what you missed out on.

And then there was the small problem of him.

Ilia Malinin.

If anyone asked, you would probably say the two of you were acquaintances more than anything. Friendly, but not friends.

And you thought it was better that way.

Sure, you'd watched each other grow up over the years at training camps and international competitions.

Sure, you thought he was an incredible athlete. A once-in-a-generation talent.

Sure, you'd maybe had a tiny, microscopic crush on him when you'd both been juniors.

Sure, your stomach had done a ridiculous little flip the first time you saw him in person after he'd dyed his hair blond.

Sure, you'd been a little—okay, very—disappointed when he changed out of his original "I'm Not a Vampire" costume.

He looks like a prince, you'd thought at the time. Not that you'd told anyone that. That information would have to be water boarded out of you.

Sure, sometimes you found yourself staring a little too long at his high cheekbones and blue eyes.

Sure, you knew exactly what his laugh sounded like from across a crowded rink.

Sure, you remembered random things he'd mentioned years ago—his favorite movies, the snacks he always bought at competitions, the song he'd been obsessed with one summer.

That didn't mean anything. Probably.

Sure, your heart had broken for him as you watched the disastrous events of February 13th unfold.

Sure, you'd picked up your phone more than once, wanting to text him something—anything—but never managed to find the right words.

So, yeah.

The idea of spending a month and a half on tour with him felt a little torturous.

This would be the most time you'd ever spent together.

You were a good pretender. For a week-long camp here or a competition there, you could fake indifference. You could smile, chat, and act like seeing him didn't affect you at all.

But a month and a half?

A month and a half of bus rides, hotel lobbies, backstage hallways, and shared meals.

A month and a half of seeing him every single day.

A month and a half of pretending your heart didn't speed up every time he smiled at you.

Well. That seemed like a much bigger challenge

The first tour stop is in Fort Myers.

You arrive at the arena with a coffee in one hand and a bag slung over your shoulder, trying very hard to ignore the nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin.

It’s ridiculous.

You’ve competed in front of thousands of people.

You’ve skated at World Championships.

You’ve stood in the kiss-and-cry waiting for scores that can determine the trajectory of your entire season.

And somehow, walking into a Stars on Ice rehearsal feels more terrifying than all of those.

The arena is already busy when you get there. Crew members hurry across the floor. Music echoes through the speakers. Skaters mill around the boards, chatting in small groups.

You spot Alysa first.

Thank God.

You gravitate toward her immediately, letting yourself relax a little as she pulls you into a quick hug.

“You made it.”

“Barely,” you say. “I think I got three hours of sleep.”

“Rookie mistake.”

“I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”

“Tour rookie.”

“Fair.”

“Y/N!” You turn at the sound of your name and immediately find Isabeau gliding toward you, somehow managing to look graceful despite basically sprinting across the ice.

A second later she wraps you in a hug.

“Finally you’re here.”

“Yeah, Charlotte was on lightning watch and my flight got delayed by like 12 hours. I came straight from the airport.”

“Oof.”

“I’m choosing to view it as the universe giving me one last chance to turn around.”

“Too late,” Alysa says. “You’re trapped now.”

You groan.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Well,” Isabeau says, hooking her arm through yours, “I think that officially makes you the last one here.”

Your stomach drops. For some reason that makes you nervous.

“Oh.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Amber says, appearing seemingly out of nowhere with a grin already tugging at her mouth. “Save the best for last.”

You know she means it—more or less.

It’s just a joke.

A tease.

But something in your chest tightens anyway.

Because you are not the best. There are standings, scores, entire seasons that can prove that in black and white.

You give a small laugh that hopefully sounds normal.

“Right. Sure.”

“How is practice shaping up?” you ask, mostly to steer your brain away from where it’s already going.

“Well, we’re in choreography mode right now,” Alysa says.

“Ah. Right. The group number.”

Stars on Ice has sent out a run of show a couple of weeks ago, so everyone already knows what to expect. You’re in all the group numbers—woven into the rest of the cast in various formations and transitions—and then a solo, which you’re oddly grateful for, like having something that belongs only to you might keep you steady.

But the one thing you can’t stop thinking about is the partner section.

The dance where everyone gets paired up.

Alysa is sitting that one out, probably because she’s already in nearly everything else, which means you won’t be spared. You’ll be paired with one of the men on the tour, and you tell yourself that doesn’t mean anything at all, even as your brain quietly starts treating it like a problem it needs to solve before it happens.

It isn’t that you can’t skate with a partner. You can. You have. You’re fine at it, even if you’ve never really been anyone’s permanent half.

It’s just that partner work means something different. Proximity in a way singles skating never does. Timing and trust and the kind of easy, unavoidable closeness that leaves very little room for pretending you aren’t aware of another person every time they move.

And suddenly you are very aware of exactly who is in this building.

You stare at the ice a little too long, like if you focus hard enough on the empty space in front of you, you can delay whatever is coming.

“Well, I’m excited for our group number,” Isabeau says with a grin.

“Oh yeah, the Blade Angels number is gonna be so cute,” you say, letting yourself smile a little for the first time since walking in.

“No, no,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean our group number.”

She gestures between the four of you.

You blink. “What?”

“Did someone forget to read the email?” Amber asks, already looking mildly offended on principle.

You watch her for a second, a little amused.

Amber is the oldest, and she wears it in a way that makes sense—organized, attentive, always three steps ahead of whatever chaos is about to happen.

You’ve grown up very differently.

Your grandmother gives you a place to land, but she also trusted you with a lot of independence early on. The result is that you’re extremely self-sufficient in a way that occasionally surprises people and rarely surprises you.

Still, watching Amber step into responsibility so naturally makes you wonder what it feels like to not have to think and try so hard about everything all the time.

You shrug lightly. “I guess I just missed that one.”

“Oh,” Alysa says immediately, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s been personally wounded. “I’m hurt. Deeply hurt.”

You laugh. “I’ve been in survival mode since January. Emails are not making the cut.”

“That actually explains a lot,” Isabeau says, grinning.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, “you’ve been a little different since then.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shrugging it off like it’s nothing. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

You thought you had been putting on a better front than that. But apparently they knew something was up.

Alysa nudges your shoulder lightly. “It’s fine. We’ll fix you.”

That makes you laugh for real. “That sounds ominous.”

“It should,” Alysa says, dead serious for half a second before breaking into a grin.

Isabeau nods and you know that this is actually something that they have talked about before and that thought makes you nervous. Them talking about you when you are not there “We’re very committed to emotional rehabilitation.”

“Oh, I can tell,” you say.

Amber leans slightly against the boards, watching the three of you like she’s considering something. Then, almost casually, she adds, “You’re not the only one in need of emotional rehabilitation, you know.”

You pause.

“Excuse me?”

She blinks at you like the confusion is yours alone. “Ilia.”

That name lands differently, even said that casually.

You frown slightly. “What about him?”

Amber hesitates just long enough to make it feel intentional. “He’s been different since the Olympics.”

Alysa nods. “Like… he’s trying really hard to act normal, but everyone kind of knows he’s not.”

“Not normal how?” you ask, though your voice has already gone careful without permission.

Isabeau tilts her head. “Just quieter. More in his head. Like he’s there, but not really all the way there.”

You try to imagine him like that.

Ilia Malinin—quiet. Careful. Trying.

It doesn’t fit neatly with the version your brain has catalogued over the years, even if that version was never fully accurate either.

You shrug lightly. “Well. Maybe that’s fair considering what happened.”

Dreams dashed in a moment—you know what that feels like. Thankfully you only receive a fraction of the media attention Ilia does. Your fall at Nationals is not plastered across headlines.

Alysa snorts. “Yeah. Fair.”

For a moment, the four of you stand there in comfortable silence, watching skaters drift across the ice as rehearsal slowly comes together around you.

“Well, we should probably get back to practice,” Amber says.

“And you should warm up,” Alysa adds, pushing herself off the boards.

“Bossy.”

“You love us for it.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Liar,” Isabeau says immediately.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you set your coffee down and begin to put on your skates.

For the first time since arriving, you take a proper look around the rink.

The cast is scattered across the ice in various states of rehearsal. Some are stretching. Some are running through choreography. Others are chatting in small groups while waiting for instructions.

You tell yourself you’re just taking everything in. You are definitely not looking for anyone. Unfortunately, your brain seems to have other plans.

Your gaze drifts across the ice, passing over skaters you know almost as well as your own reflection.

Jason is talking animatedly with one of the choreographers, his hands moving almost as much as the rest of him.

Amber is off to one side, walking through a section of choreography with focused precision.

Isabeau has somehow collected three people into a conversation less than two minutes after leaving your side.

Madison and Evan are practicing something near center ice.

And then there is Ilia.

He’s standing near the opposite boards talking to one of the crew members, one hand shoved into his hoodie pocket while the other absentmindedly spins a skate guard around his finger.

It’s a little unfair, honestly.

You’ve spent the better part of the last month convincing yourself this tour isn’t going to be a problem. That six weeks in close quarters with Ilia Malinin is something you can handle with the same professionalism you apply everywhere else.

And then you see him in person and immediately understand you’ve been lying to yourself.

Because suddenly you are thirteen again—sitting across from him at junior team breakfasts and trying not to stare. Thirteen and pretending your stomach isn’t doing strange flips every time he chooses the empty seat next to you. Thirteen and absolutely terrible at having a crush despite considering yourself generally competent.

The annoying thing is he isn’t even doing anything.

He is just standing there talking.

Somehow that has always been enough.

Your conversation with Alysa and Amber drifts back in.

He’s been different since the Olympics.

Maybe they’re right.

There is something slightly off, though you can’t quite name it. If you didn’t know him, you probably wouldn’t notice. He still laughs when people say something funny. Still smiles. Still Ilia.

But there is a hesitancy now. Like part of him is elsewhere.

You frown before you can stop it.

The truth is, you don’t know him all that well.

At least, that is what you always tell people.

You know him well enough to recognize the way he bounces on his toes before competitions, and how he misplaces important things at the worst possible times. You know that when he’s excited he talks faster, and when something is bothering him he pulls inward.

None of that means anything.

Except apparently it does.

Because you notice when he isn’t quite himself.

Which is probably more than someone should know about an “acquaintance.”

You look away. Three seconds later, you look back.

He is still there.

Summary: Ilia Malinin and Aristea (ah-rees-TAY-uh) Floraki had been inseparable since childhood—two skaters growing up on the same ice, chasing the same dream. From school hallways to late‑night practice sessions, they were always a pair. Until tragedy struck, and Aristea’s family moved back to Greece, leaving Ilia with nothing but memories and a future he’d expected to share with her. Five years later, fate reunites them at the Milano Cortina 2026 Olympics. But the easy closeness they once knew has been replaced by awkward silences, unresolved hurt, and the weight of everything left unsaid

author’s note: plz let me know if u all like this lmao, i reacted very normally to these olympic games and can be trusted with titkok edits and talented blond men lol. a relatively new figure skating fan so sorry if some things are just inaccurate! trying to not write nonsense but sometimes for the story things are just gonna be unrealistic a little bit. trying to keep it grounded though.

Chapter 1:

word count: 1,345

Aristea has always loved planes. She loves how easy it is to be dramatic on them, how staring out the window makes it feel like she’s stepping out of one life and into another. No matter where she’s going, something always feels like it’s ending, and something else—undefined, hopeful—waits on the other side. She often wishes that “something” is her. A version of herself who reacts differently, handles things better, feels less like she’s always catching up. A plane, she likes to imagine, can carry her not just to a new place, but to a new version of herself.

She also loves the strange unity of being in the air with so many strangers. For once, everyone on board shares the same simple goal: getting to the same place. She spends so much of her life feeling disconnected from people, but here—crammed into a metal tube with maybe 150 others (give or take; she never actually counts)—they’re all moving toward the same point on the map. She likes to guess why. A torrid love affair. A high‑stakes business deal. A long‑overdue family reunion. The plane becomes a storybook in her mind, each row holding a plot she’ll never get to read.

And she figures it’s probably pretty easy to guess why she is flying into Milan during an Olympic year, wearing a blue sweatsuit with “Team Hellas” printed across the chest.

Aristea Floraki is going to compete in the Milano Cortina Olympics. A dream that once felt impossibly far away is suddenly real. She can hardly believe it.

To be fair, she’s only had a handful of months since she qualified for the reality to sink in. No one expected her to make it—not her coaches, not the federation, and least of all herself. Not after taking two years off skating when her family moved to Greece. Finding ice time there is hard, and adjusting to a new country is even harder. She’s spent scattered weeks in Greece throughout her childhood visiting her grandparents, but living there full‑time is nothing like that.

She still remembers the first morning she woke up in Thessaloniki. The light was different—softer, warmer, slipping through the shutters in thin golden stripes. The air smelled like sea salt and bakery bread instead of the crisp, cold Virginia mornings she was used to. It should have felt magical. Instead, it felt like a nightmare. She padded through her grandparents’ apartment in borrowed slippers, listening to the unfamiliar hum of Greek morning radio, and felt a loneliness so sharp it almost winded her.

And she thinks often about the flight that brought her there. How she’d pressed her forehead to the window just like this, waiting for the moment the plane would deliver her into a new life. She’d imagined stepping off the jet bridge and somehow being different—braver, steadier, someone who didn’t fall apart at the thought of starting over.

But when the wheels touched down and the cabin lights flicked on, she was still her. Still the same girl with the same fears and the same ache in her chest. It was the first time she realized that planes can take you anywhere in the world, but they can’t take you away from yourself. Especially when part of yourself is back in a skating rink in Virginia.

Moving somewhere where she knows no one outside of family and their friends isn’t exactly ideal for a fifteen‑year‑old girl. Lyceum is lonely, and she’s grateful her U.S. credits place her in second year instead of first. At least she gets out sooner than she expects.

University is different—thankfully. It forces her out of her comfort zone, but she finds friends. Real ones. People who love her, support her, care about her. She hasn’t really had that since him.

She tries—and fails—not to think about the day she left Virginia. Her parents had made the difficult decision to move back to Greece, saying their parents needed help. And that was the Greek way: family above everything. But that doesn’t make the memory any easier.

Ilia stands in her driveway like he’s rooted to the pavement, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing against a storm. The cicadas buzz in the trees, loud and relentless, and the air smells like cut grass and summer heat. She remembers the way he kept kicking at a crack in the asphalt, like if he stared at it long enough, the moment wouldn’t be real.

They pretend nothing will change, that they’ll still be best friends, that they’ll talk all the time despite the seven‑hour time difference. She remembers wanting to hug him, to say something real, something honest, but the words never come. They both lie because the truth is too heavy for two fifteen‑year‑olds to carry.

She knows even then that everything will change. What she doesn’t expect is how completely. For a long time afterward, she keeps replaying that moment in the driveway, as if looking at it from enough angles might make it hurt less. But life has a way of pulling you forward whether you’re ready or not, and eventually even that memory gets folded into the quiet ache she carries with her.

She leans on her new friends more than she ever admits, especially when her mom is diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. Suddenly the future tilts again. Imagining a world without her mom feels impossible. She always knew that day would come eventually, but it always felt like a distant, abstract thing—not something that would happen when she’s nineteen.

She remembers the moment she found out. Her mom sitting at the kitchen table, fingers curled around a mug of tea she isn’t drinking. The way her dad hovers behind her, one hand on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles like he’s trying to soothe both of them at once. The world doesn’t fall apart dramatically like it should after receiving such life altering news. A new normal emerges from the chaos.

Her mom is part of the reason she returns to skating. Feeling emotions that big with nowhere to put them is suffocating. She starts skating at the mall rink just to get out of her own head for a while, even if it’s only for the hour‑and‑a‑half sessions she can afford. She works part‑time as a lab assistant at the university and doesn’t want to burden her parents with skating expenses again, not when medical treatments are so costly.

But then her mom confesses something she’s never said out loud: she has always believed she would see Aristea skate at the Olympics in her lifetime. Skating doesn’t feel the same without SkateQuest, without home, without him—but she wants to give her mom that one thing. After everything her mom sacrificed throughout her childhood and junior career, it feels right to try.

It helps that a distant aunt passes away and leaves everything to her dad. Not a fortune, but enough that medical bills and skating costs don’t have to compete with each other.

So she goes back to training. It’s brutal at first. For a normal person, she isn’t out of shape—Thessaloniki is walkable, and she still runs and lifts weights occasionally. But nothing compares to the full‑body exhaustion of skating, the way it demands every muscle, every breath, every ounce of focus.

She’s focused enough to make some waves in Greek figure skating and some very, very small waves internationally. Always at competitions he is never at. None of this is intentional, but every time she doesn’t see his name on a roster, a small part of her relaxes. She tells herself it’s better this way. Cleaner. Easier.

And now, as the plane begins its descent toward Milan, she presses her forehead to the window and watches the clouds thin into soft, glowing ribbons.

Somewhere below them is the Olympic Village. Somewhere below them is the version of her life she’s been chasing for years. And somewhere below them— she knows — is him.

She wonders if she’s ready. Or if anyone ever truly is.