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[chapter two]
author's note: i'm going out of town on monday and will be back next saturday, so i won't be active during the week. mature content ahead, including performance anxiety. i created scoring breakdowns for both short programs and the free skate. i hope jd vance steps on a lego. happy reading!
you didn’t get much sleep thursday night. despite knowing that you should get at least eight hours to be ready for the team event, your body simply refused to relax. around one in the morning, you considered seeing if ilia was up, but you eventually decided against it. it wouldn’t be fair to keep him awake on your account. eventually, you drifted off.
when your alarm blared at five o’clock on friday morning, you groaned.
“hard time sleeping?” amber asked, stretching.
you nodded. “i think i slept better on the plane ride here, and i hate sleeping on planes.”
she laughed tiredly. “if memory serves, you passed out on ilia’s shoulder about an hour into the flight.”
you squirmed. “oh, yeah.” in your defense, he had looked incredibly cuddly.
she yawned and sat up. “okay, let’s get you ready to kick some ass.”
you sat up and rubbed your eyes as she started to make her bed. “how do i look?”
she stared at you for a moment then patted your shoulder. “let’s brush your hair before i answer that question.”
you laughed and stood up, groaning. “okay.”
thirty minutes later, you looked considerably more presentable. “much better,” amber said with a grin.
you yawned and followed her to the cantine, sighing as a cold breeze easily cut through your black leggings. you zipped your team warmup jacket to your chin and balled your fists, shivering. you probably should’ve worn your puffy coat instead. fortunately, it was warmer in the cantine, but seeing the other athletes reminded you what you’d be doing in a few hours. your stomach flipped as you followed amber to the granola bar. “are you going to be there today?”
she nodded and put some fresh berries in a bowl. “i have a practice session at ten, but i’ll be watching when i can, and i’ll be there when you skate.”
somewhat reassured, you got your own breakfast and followed her to a table occupied by ilia, who looked like he regretted every decision he’d ever made. “i think this is the first time i’ve ever seen you get up before nine,” you teased as you sat down next to him.
he yawned and leaned against you. “and i’m never doing it again.”
at first, you thought he was being dramatic, but then he sighed happily and closed his eyes. you frowned at him. “ilia?” no response. you gently poked him. “ilia?” what was he thinking? more importantly, why didn’t you want him to move? he looked so peaceful like this. you decided it was platonic enough and ignored the warm feeling buzzing through your veins.
“i guess he’s staying there,” amber said casually. you looked up at her, and she snickered. “he doesn’t have ice time for several hours. i wonder why he got up so early?”
some stupid emotion fluttered in your chest. what exactly was she implying? did ilia drag himself out of bed at an ungodly hour just so he could be with you the morning of your olympic debut? you’d be lying if you said his presence hadn’t brought you a very welcome feeling of calm.
“he’s just being a good friend,” you said lamely. it didn’t feel right, relegating whatever this was to friendship.
amber took a bite from her granola bowl and shrugged. “okay.” she yawned. “what’s your schedule today?”
you started to eat your breakfast, careful to not disturb ilia. “uh, i have ice time in two hours. after that, i’ll just come back here until it’s time to go.” you didn’t want to sit around all morning and give yourself the opportunity to overthink your program, so you’d probably end up watching the livestream of ice dance and pairs.
she nodded. “let me know if you want me to do anything, okay?”
you smiled. “thanks, amber.”
you ate the rest of your breakfast in silence, pausing occasionally to make sure ilia looked comfortable and fighting your atypical case of unease. usually, you weren’t like this. yes, you got nervous, but your meticulous preparation always afforded you a slight reprieve from performance anxiety. on the rare occasion that things got rough, you could disappear into your head and seamlessly map out every minute detail that you’d carefully rehearsed until your confidence returned. but this time, you couldn’t seem to shake the nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach. you chalked it up to olympic pressure.
eventually, amber stood up and reached for your bowl, pulling you away from your thoughts. “i’ll take care of this so you don’t disturb sleeping beauty.” you thanked her, and she squeezed your hand. “you’ve got this.”
as she walked away, you smiled. she could’ve stayed in bed for a few more hours, but she’d looked after you instead. no matter what she was dealing with, she was always there for you. you’d make sure to return the favor on sunday. well, assuming you didn’t totally flop today and deny everyone a shot at the team gold medal.
eventually, ilia stirred and sat up. he looked vaguely confused for a few moments, especially with his hair adorably mussed up. “uh, how’d we get here?”
you laughed and attempted to fix his hair; he leaned into your touch without hesitation. “well, you decided to wake up early, but you fell asleep while amber and i were eating.”
he looked at you and smiled goofily, his wide blue eyes still somewhat bleary. “i see.” he yawned. “well, i’ll be on standby today.”
you laughed thinly. “i don’t think you’re eligible to skate the women’s short program.”
he sat up and looked at you, his eyes sincere. “no, i know. but i’m serious, okay? just say the word, and i’ll find you new airpods or a quiet room or whatever you need.”
you smiled softly. “thanks, ilia.” you fidgeted with your jacket sleeves. “it’ll all be fine.”
–
several hours later, everything was very much not fine. your usual pre-competition routine consisted of a brief ice session, some mild stretching, and several hours of listening to music. then, you’d do your hair and makeup just before heading to the arena, where you’d warm up, dress, check your jumps in costume, mark your program, tape your skates, and sit in a quiet room for a few minutes to gather yourself until it was time for your group to take the ice.
there had been no hiccups at first. your ice time had been smooth, and it had given you a real confidence boost. your program was ready. all that was left was to execute it. unfortunately, the traffic on the way to the arena seemed to have other ideas.
you fidgeted with the strap of your bag as you sat on the bus, which hadn’t moved for at least thirty minutes. “what time is it?”
sasha checked her watch, her face expressionless. “your group warmup begins in twenty-seven minutes. the first group has started.”
your stomach flipped. “oh, great.” you glanced out the window at the arena. it was right there, but you were stranded just beyond the parking lot.
sasha followed your gaze and placed her hand on your shoulder. “it will be fine.”
you glared out the windshield of the bus. “if that stupid motorcade wasn’t blocking all the traffic, we’d be inside right now.” you’d left early, thinking you’d have more than enough time to spare, but you’d clearly been wrong. you bit your lip and started to run through everything you’d have to do before you could skate. there was security to get through and event check-in to complete before you could even get dressed or warm up. you swallowed hard. “sasha, what if–”
she shook her head firmly. “no. you will skate today.” she glanced at her watch again and pursed her lips. “i will speak to the driver.”
you fidgeted as she headed to the front of the bus. what were you going to do if the motorcade didn’t move? madi and evan had won the rhythm dance this morning, and ellie and danny had done well in the pairs’ short program, but none of that would matter if you didn’t get there in time to skate. as you felt panic starting to take root in your chest, your phone suddenly buzzed with an incoming call. you picked up immediately. “amber?”
“hey,” she said, her voice forcefully calm. “so, alysa said there’s some kind of security commotion going on outside the arena.”
you bit your lip. “yeah, i know. i’m sitting on a bus because of it.”
“okay,” she said. you could hear the slight note of tension in her voice. “where’s the bus?”
“just outside the parking lot,” you said. “sasha’s talking to the driver right now.”
“what do you need to do once you get here?”
you fidgeted with your sleeve as you tried to swallow the lump in your throat. could you make do with just the six-minute warmup? you’d have to. “i need to get dressed and tape my skates.” you should have at least fifteen minutes after the group warmup before you were supposed to skate. you could use that time to gather yourself and mark your program.
she said something unintelligible, clearly not directed at you. “ilia will meet you at security,” she said a moment later.
you laughed nervously. “see you soon.” you hoped.
she hung up just as sasha was returning. “the driver does not know how much longer we will be here.”
you glanced at the arena. the bus was stopped maybe a hundred meters away from the edge of the parking lot, which was still bottlenecked from the motorcade. “what happens when we get there?”
she pursed her lips. “once we are inside, i will handle check-in. do your teammates know that you are coming?”
you nodded. “ilia’s going to meet us at security.” you glanced at your phone and swallowed hard.
she glared out the window then placed both hands on your shoulders. “listen to me carefully. do not overdo it during the warmup. the last thing you want to do is injure yourself. i know that this is hard to hear, but it is better to lose today than be unable to skate at all.”
you felt tears well in your eyes. “i know.”
she glanced around the bus, which was mostly empty, and smiled thinly. “you might want to stretch again. walk around, too.”
a few minutes later, the bus driver suddenly called out in italian. you glanced up, confused, and sasha smiled. “the traffic is clearing up. we will be there in five minutes.”
you immediately pulled out your phone and sent ilia a text, your hands shaking. you’d have just over fifteen minutes to get ready. how in the world were you going to get dressed in time?
the bus lurched forward, and you quickly checked your bags. you couldn’t afford to lose precious seconds trying to find something.
finally, after what felt like years, the bus doors opened. you thanked the driver, slung your skate bag over your shoulder, and made a beeline for the entrance, careful to avoid any slippery spots. how ironic would it be if you wiped out on a patch of ice trying to get to your first olympic skate?
sasha guided you through security in record time, and you felt a huge wave of relief wash over you when you saw ilia waiting for you. you ran to him, and he immediately pulled you into a hug. you briefly let yourself relax in his arms. for a moment, there was no traffic, no competition, no anything that existed except for him. why couldn’t you hide your face in his neck and just be held all day?
right. the olympics. you had a short program to skate. you quickly pulled away, heat rushing to your cheeks. “uh, thanks for coming to get me,” you said.
sasha pursed her lips and passed you your suitcase. “this is not yet over. i will get you checked in.” she turned to ilia. “you will make sure that she is ready.”
he nodded quickly. “yes, ma’am.” he grabbed your suitcase by the handle and quickly started to lead you down the hall. sasha called something after you in russian, and his cheeks turned red.
you frowned, not speaking any russian yourself. “what was that?”
“uh, she said she’ll blame me if you’re not ready,” he said. you started to protest, because that didn’t seem right to you. it wasn’t like he’d caused the traffic jam. “jokingly,” he hastily added.
“oh, okay,” you said, deciding that you had more important things to worry about than misinterpreting a joke in a language you didn’t even understand.
his phone buzzed in his hand, and he grimaced. your heart rate picked up as he jogged down a flight of stairs. “this way.”
to your surprise, he led you to a restroom instead of the locker room. when he pushed open the door, amber, alysa, and isabeau immediately pounced on you, and it all made sense. because they weren’t competing today, they were barred from the locker room, but they could help you here. “clothes off,” amber instructed as she dragged you into the big stall. “we’ve got this.”
you nodded and took a deep breath as you set your skate bag down and peeled off your jacket. isabeau snatched your suitcase and began to pull out your dress and leggings as amber tugged your shirt over your head. you could feel your head spinning slightly as you kicked off your pants and shoes. alysa threw your mostly-empty water bottle to ilia. “get her some water.”
he closed the door as you finished tearing off your clothes. “leggings,” amber said firmly.
isabeau appeared at your side and started to slide the nude fabric up your leg. “right leg first. hold my shoulder,” she said.
alysa stepped in front of you, wielding your makeup bag. “i’m going to touch up your eyes,” she informed you.
as isabeau finished pulling your leggings up, amber appeared with your dress. “right leg,” she said. you obediently lifted your foot and closed your eyes so alysa could go to work.
“amber, fix her hair,” alysa said calmly. isabeau took over maneuvering your dress as amber whipped out a few bobby pins. “we’ve got you. you’re gonna be great. ilia’s gonna take you to the waiting area and help you with your skates, and you’re gonna go kick some serious ass.”
isabeau pulled your dress up your torso and held out the sleeves. “right arm.”
“makeup’s done,” alysa said. “i’ll do shoes.”
behind you, amber stuck one final bobby pin in your hair. “hair’s done.”
isabeau finished situating your sleeves. “i’ll get the jacket.”
you stretched out your arms and lifted a foot as amber circled you, nodding. outside the bathroom, ilia knocked on the door. “nine minutes!”
alysa shoved your tennis shoes on your feet as isabeau held up your jacket; you plunged your arms into the sleeves. “she’s good. go, go, go!”
amber wrenched the door open and tossed ilia your skate bag. “phone, socks, tape, and skates are in the bag. he has your water. you’ve got this!”
hope bloomed in your chest. “thank you.”
“go!”
you nodded and dashed out of the bathroom. ilia immediately grabbed your hand and started to run. “they tore off your clothes almost as fast as i do.”
for some unbelievably stupid reason, you laughed. he grinned and followed you up a flight of stairs, sprinting until you finally came to a halt by the door that led to the waiting area. you sat down on a nearby bench and reached for your skate bag, taking deep breaths. “okay, skates.”
he immediately knelt in front of you and handed you your water bottle. “nope. you remember how to breathe. i’ll handle your skates.”
you wanted to protest, but decided against it. none of this would mean anything if you were too out of breath to warm up. you took a sip of water and kicked off your tennis shoes as ilia carefully put on your skates.
he was absolutely the right person for the job, which he had done on a few prior occasions. he was perfectly attuned to your body, reading your minute reactions with ease as he laced up your skates. when he was done, he reached for the tape. “feel okay?”
you nodded, taking a deep breath. “feels right.”
he smiled crookedly and began to tape your laces. “good.”
just as he finished, sasha opened the door. she smiled when she saw you. “you are cutting it very close.”
ilia slid your shoes into your skate bag, zipped it, and offered you his hand as he helped you up. “we’re living on the edge today. hopefully, a very clean lutz edge.”
you laughed and smiled at him. “thank you. i’d be crying in the locker room now if it weren’t for all of you.”
he pulled you into a quick hug. “you’ve got this.” sasha coughed gently, and he pulled away and handed her your skate bag. he smiled at you one last time, his eyes soft. “i’ll see you soon.”
you watched him leave. when he was out of sight, you took a deep breath and turned to sasha. “i’m ready.”
she nodded firmly. “good.” she gently tapped your chin. “no matter what, i am proud of you.”
you smiled and handed her the rest of your belongings. “thanks, sasha.”
as she headed off to the coaches’ zone, you walked into the waiting area. you took a deep breath and shook your hands out as you took your place in line. here we go.
the roar of the crowd when you were introduced for the warmup brought a smile to your face, and you were hit with a feeling of how right this was when your blade first touched the ice. once the initial moment of giddiness wore off, you set your jaw and focused on the task at hand. given the difficulty of the jumps in your program, you were now at a significant disadvantage.
an ember of fear burned in your heart as you felt your muscles react to the sudden intensity of what you were doing. what if you fell? you pushed the fear away and started the approach for a sequence of double jumps. there was no point in wasting precious time on singles when you had jumped your program’s featured triples this morning.
you launched into a double lutz-double toe. the lutz edge wasn’t perfect, but you stuck the landing cleanly. sasha’s words stuck in your mind as you lined up for a double flip. “the last thing you want to do is injure yourself.” you tapped your toe pick into the ice, feeling relief wash over you as you neatly flew through the air.
ilia had done a good job with your skates. you felt a wave of calm wash over you as you headed into a double axel. smooth takeoff, easy landing. you could feel your body gently sliding into routine, and you were immeasurably grateful to amber for having made sure you'd gotten up for your practice this morning.
you skated a quick lap and discarded your warmup jacket then pulled yourself into one of your spins. it felt good, so you gently glided into the next one. as you came out of it, you glanced at the clock. shit. you had less than two minutes left.
between practicing jumps and spins, you’d take the jumps. you took a deep breath and headed into a triple flip. time seemed to stop as you flew through the air, but you stuck the landing and smiled thinly.
with one minute remaining, you glided into your triple axel. immediately, you knew you’d botched the takeoff. you heard the crowd groan then clap encouragingly as you stepped out of it. fuck.
you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you lined up your triple lutz-triple toe combo. cheers echoed around the arena when you landed it cleanly, but you felt like you were underwater. you shook out your hands as the warmup ended and you headed for the boards.
once you were off the ice, sasha silently handed you your jacket, skate guards, phone, and water bottle. you took a few quick sips as you headed back to the waiting area. you’d be skating ninth overall and fourth in your group, just before kaori sakamoto.
you checked the time on your phone as you sat and tried to catch your breath. you felt cold, but it took you twice as long as it should’ve to pull on your jacket. your hands were trembling slightly, and your dress felt tight around your neck. you felt panic well in your throat as you stood up and hurried into the hallway.
what was happening? you were used to pre-competition nerves, but this felt different. you closed your eyes and pressed your fist to your forehead, trying to take deep breaths. it wasn’t working.
what if you blew it? what if all this drama and the hard work your teammates put in to get you ready amounted to nothing? what if you ruined everyone’s chances at olympic gold?
suddenly, your phone buzzed in your hand. your hand shook as you accepted the call, not even looking at who it was. “hello?” your voice sounded unnaturally thin.
“that was a really good combo,” ilia said gently, “and your flip looked great.”
his voice made your breathing level out slightly. “well, if i fuck up the axel like that, we’re screwed,” you said bitterly.
“your triple axel makes me rethink my own,” he said softly. “you can do it.”
you slowly pulled your fist away from your forehead. “what…what if i can’t?”
you could practically hear his smile. “i guess i’ll just have to break some world records over the next few days.”
you smiled. your head was starting to feel clearer. “don’t break your ankles trying to break a record.” you fidgeted with the hem of your white skirt. for some strange reason, you wished that he was there with you.
he laughed then hesitated. “is this…helping, or do you want me to put amber on the phone?”
you could see the sleeves of your jacket now. there was a slight smudge of mascara on your left sleeve, which must have happened a few moments ago. you felt something warm fizzle in your chest. “this is helping. can…can we just keep talking, please?”
“sure,” he said easily. “uh, i found a cat café on google maps last night. we should…we should go sometime.”
something in his voice sounded vulnerable. you wondered why. you’d gone to cafés before together. why shouldn’t this time be exactly the same? and why did you hope that it would be different? “i’d like that,” you said softly. “i’d really like that, ilia.”
you heard someone talking to him, and he cleared his throat. “amber, alysa, and isabeau say, “you’ve got this, and we love you no matter what.””
tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “shit,” you mumbled. “i’m gonna cry my makeup off before i even make it to the ice.”
he laughed. “we’ll have kleenex in the kiss and cry.”
you took a deep breath and stood up, careful to not roll your ankles. “thank you for helping me. i feel much better now.” it was true. you still felt nervous, but it was the usual anticipation instead of the anxiousness you’d nearly succumbed to a few minutes prior.
“go out there and be your brilliant self, okay?” he said gently. “i really like this program. you look…happy skating it.”
you smiled. “i’ll try.”
you’d started to stretch, knowing that you’d need to go in a moment, when he spoke again. “oh, one more thing. do you like chocolate?”
you lifted your right leg above your head and blinked, confused. “uh, yeah, i like chocolate. why?”
he laughed. “you’re wearing your jacket, right? look in your pockets.”
you stuck your hands in your pockets. “if this conversation doesn’t end with me getting chocolate, i’m going to be very disappointed.”
you grinned when you pulled out a hershey’s kiss. he sounded shy when he spoke again. “i’m assuming you found it. i stuck that in there earlier. i eat chocolate before i skate and…i don’t know. it makes me feel ready. i thought you’d maybe want some.”
you stared at the chocolate in your hand. something very warm fluttered in your chest. “thank you, ilia. really.”
he started to reply, but someone said something to him. he came back a moment later, sounding excited. “i think it’s time for you to get ready.”
you checked the time and bit your lip. “yeah, probably.”
“hey,” he said, “you’ve got this. okay?”
you smiled to yourself. “yeah, okay.” when you said it, you realized that you were dangerously close to believing it.
as you hung up the phone, sasha appeared in the doorway. “gubanova is about to skate. are you ready?”
you nodded and smiled. “yes.” you finally felt excited.
sasha led you into the waiting room. when she glanced at you, she frowned slightly and gently tapped your chin. “are you alright?”
“yes,” you said automatically. she stared at you cooly, and you smiled. your chest felt lighter than it had a few minutes ago. you started to mark your routine, feeling confidence sear through your limbs. “really, i am. i almost freaked out a little, but i’m fine now. i’m good to go.”
she nodded slowly. “alright. i trust you.”
you went through your program in silence, making occasional tweaks when she quietly suggested them. finally, you were ushered into the arena and led to the boards.
excited buzzed through your veins as you took off your skate guards and jacket and waited for the signal to step onto the ice. as you stood there, you popped the hershey’s kiss into your mouth. warmth spread in your chest, and you smiled. you could do this.
a wave of peace washed over you when you were cleared to leave the boards. the cold air felt delightful against your skin, and there was nowhere else you’d rather be.
finally, the announcement echoed around the arena, first in italian and then english. “let’s hear it for our next competitor, from the united states of america…”
you waved to the crowd and skated across the ice as your name was called, grinning. the anticipation of what you could give them was intoxicating. you skated around the olympic logo at the center of the ice and came to a stop just in front of it. high above you, the lights were blinding, but you’d never been able to see more clearly. you closed your eyes, your arms relaxed by your sides, and waited for your music to begin.
you'd fallen in love with this song years ago. you hadn't thought you’d ever be able to use it as a program piece, but it had come together this season. as the opening notes of your chosen excerpt of tchaikovsky’s romeo and juliet filled the arena, everything you’d been feeling melted away. as long as you were skating, you were untouchable.
the opening of your program was designed to help you feel the music in your heart. you skated across the ice, entranced by the melody. as the song began to pick up, you lined up your opening combination.
you caught your takeoff lutz edge almost perfectly. it felt good, and you quickly flew into your triple toe. the audience cheered as you stuck the landing, and you felt a rush of pride flow through you. that triple lutz edge had been giving you issues during nationals.
the next jump was your triple flip. as you approached it, a slight hint of fear crept into your mind. even though you’d landed it during the warmup, you’d made a mess of this jump during a practice session two days ago. why would this time be any different?
you stabbed your pick into the ice and launched into the jump. immediately, you knew it wasn’t going to be perfect. you bit your lip after you landed. it was definitely on the quarter, and whatever margin of error you’d gotten from the good combo was now gone.
now wasn’t the time to mourn your triple flip. you still had to get through your spins, step sequence, and triple axel. you pushed into your flying camel spin slighter harder than necessary and closed your eyes as you held the position. it wasn’t the greatest spin you’d done in your life, but it would certainly do.
the music began to build as you came out of the spin. you knew that everything was riding on this next jump, and you felt a shiver race through you as you began to line up. just as you turned for the forward takeoff, you thought of ilia. “your triple axel makes me rethink my own.”
you felt a rush of euphoria race through your body as you cleanly stuck the landing. you couldn’t help but grin as the audience exploded into cheers, and you swore you could hear him above all the other voices.
you neatly pulled yourself into another spin, this one with a change of foot. as the world blurred, you couldn’t help but wonder if this would be enough. if you hadn’t botched the triple flip, you would feel confident, but doubt gnawed at your stomach as you started your step sequence.
what if you couldn’t get all ten points? what if you made it harder for madi and evan, ellie and danny, amber and ilia? you knew the history of skaters who did both events for the team before competing their own events. maybe you could buy everyone a safe margin of error if you were good enough.
the song reached the last phrase as you pulled your foot up behind your head in your final spin. finally, you gracefully glided out of it, coming to a standstill with your chest open and your head tilted back.
the arena exploded. you took a few deep breaths and smiled thinly as you turned quickly and began bowing to the audience. you desperately wanted that triple flip back. even with that mistake, did you do enough?
you skated back to the boards as tossies flew in your direction. one of them, a stuffed cat with large green eyes, landed in front of you, and you scooped it up. you clung to it as you stepped off the ice and glanced at sasha nervously. “i overthought the triple flip.”
she shook her head and smiled as she passed you your skate guards. “you skated beautifully. i’m very proud of you. be proud of yourself.”
you hugged her tightly then followed her to the kiss and cry, where amber, ilia, isabeau, and alysa were waiting with a few coaches and several american flags. they all looked overjoyed, and you couldn’t figure out why. you didn’t even have your score yet. you bit your lip as you accepted high fives and praise, unsure if you were supposed to celebrate when you didn't know if you’d done enough. as you sat down, sasha passed you your jacket, which you slid on. you fidgeted with your sleeves and clutched the cat tossie as you waited.
finally, the camera in front of you went live. everyone behind you started cheering, and you forced a smile. the announcer came back, and you held your breath. you’d scored over eighty at nationals. you already knew it wouldn’t be as high, but you didn’t know how close you’d be.
applause filled the arena as your scores flashed in front of you: 43.44 for technical elements, 35.04 for components, and a total of 78.48. you smiled at the number, but your heart sank slightly. it was good, but you suspected it wouldn’t be good enough.
next to you, sasha nodded approvingly and squeezed your hand. “good.”
you stood up and bit your lip as you turned to hug everyone. you yelped in surprise when ilia, who was grinning, pulled you into a hug. “you were great!”
you hugged him back, slightly confused. “well, not great enough. i think i just made your job that much harder,” you said thinly.
“nope,” amber said firmly, nudging ilia out of the way so she could crush you in a bear hug. “we’ll be fine. don’t you dare pretend you didn’t just skate brilliantly.”
alysa and isabeau joined in, beaming. when the group hug ended, you felt slightly better. the event wasn’t even done, and second place wouldn't be the end of the world.
as you were led away from the others, you fidgeted with the cat tossie and realized you had no idea where any of your things were. fortunately, you checked your phone and found a text from amber explaining that your bags were safely stashed in a locker. you headed that way, pulling up the official stream on your phone as you walked.
you changed into your street clothes quietly. even though you weren’t paying full attention to kaori’s skate, you could see that she was doing well.
when her score flashed on the screen, you bit your lip. 78.88. you’d lost by less than half a point, and your team’s lead was now only two instead of three. a feeling of inadequacy settled in your stomach. less than a point? you could've won if you'd warmed up properly. god, you’d come so close. you actually would’ve preferred to lose by five points.
later, as you sat down on a bus headed back to the village, you shivered slightly. now that the excitement was over, you felt drained and cold. you fidgeted with the cat tossie, mourning your puffy coat, which you were too tired to pull out of your suitcase.
“you’re shivering,” ilia said quietly as he sat down next to you.
you looked up, surprised, and forced a smile. “i’ll be fine.”
he took off his puffy coat and wrapped it around your shoulders then gently pulled you against him. “you look exhausted.”
you were too tired to protest. “that’s just what a girl wants to hear,” you joked, but it sounded halfhearted. you could feel everything in your body slowing down as you leaned against him. he was so warm, and his coat smelled like the really expensive aloe moisturizer you knew he was fond of.
he laughed quietly. “it’s okay. i’ve got you.”
you relaxed entirely as he put his arm around you. “okay.” for some stupid reason, you looked up at him. “why aren't you pissed at me? my triple flip made your job unnecessarily more complicated.”
“no,” he said gently. “you were great. i love watching you skate.” he reached for your hand and squeezed gently. “i know it feels like it’s only you when you’re out there, but we’ve got your back.” he grinned. “it’s not like we expected to come here and make tens across the board.”
you smiled thinly, knowing that your roles might very well be reversed in just over twenty-four hours. “i look forward to reminding you that you don’t have to be a literal god over the next two days.” he cracked a smile, but it looked slightly tense. you squeezed his hand. “i mean it.” you knew the pressure on him was different. analysts had spent the morning debating who would win the women’s free skate and concluded that it would be very close, but ilia was expected to easily sweep anything he skated.
you stared at your hands as the bus started to move. you could’ve won even with the bad triple flip if you’d put more into your spins and step sequence, or if your triple axel had been a little better. come to think of it, it hadn’t been that good in the first place. your short program axel at nationals had been one of the best of your career. why couldn’t you replicate it today? despite all the high fives and reassurance, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d let everyone down as the bus rolled back to the village.
My one request is more dom ilia smut pls and thanks 🫶💕
You ask. You receive.
Night Out
Warning: Dom!Ilia, heavy smut, fingering, edging
Ilia x fem!reader
The bass from the sponsor’s private club still throbbed in your bones as you stepped out into the humid night. The event had been for one of Ilia’s biggest equipment deals—an exclusive after-party with executives, other skaters, and too many people who thought they owned a piece of him. You smiled through every handshake. Ilia kept a hand on the small of your back the entire time, fingers pressing just a little too hard whenever someone lingered too close to you.
Your argument started in the VIP lounge, quiet enough that no one else heard, sharp enough that it still cut.
“You didn’t have to laugh like that when he asked if I was ‘the one who keeps you grounded,’” Ilia had said, voice low and cold against your ear. “You didn’t have to let him touch your arm either.”
“He was being polite,” you snapped back. “And you were the one who disappeared for twenty minutes with the marketing team and left me standing there like decoration.”
He looked at you then—really looked—and something mean and hungry had settled behind his eyes. “Decoration. Is that what you think you are tonight?”
You both didn’t speak again for the rest of the night. Not in the car. Not in the elevator. Not when the hotel door clicked shut behind you and the city noise finally died.
Ilia walked past you without a word, shrugging out of his jacket. The rings on his fingers caught the low light—thick silver bands, one with a dark stone, another etched with something Cyrillic. He never took them off for events like this. You watched him roll his sleeves up to his elbows, the metal flashing every time he moved.
“Take the dress off.”
Your pulse kicked. “Ilia—”
“I didn’t ask.” His voice was quiet, almost bored. “Take it off. Now.”
You reached back and unzipped. The black dress slid down your body and pooled at your feet. You stood there in the lace bra and panties he’d chosen for you earlier, heart hammering. He didn’t look impressed. He just pointed at the bed.
“On your knees. Facing the headboard. Hands on the mattress.”
You climbed up. The second you settled, he was behind you, one knee on the bed, the cool metal of his rings dragging slowly up the back of your thigh. He hooked two fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down to your knees, leaving them there like a restraint.
“You spent the whole night performing for strangers,” he said, almost conversational. “Smiling. Letting them look at what’s mine. Letting them think they could touch.” His palm cracked across your ass, hard enough to sting. “And now you’re going to sit here and take what I give you until I decide you’ve earned an orgasm. Understand?”
“Yes,” you whispered.
He leaned over you, chest to your back, and one hand slid around your throat—not tight yet, just resting there, the rings cool against your warmed skin. His other hand reached between your legs and stroked through your already slick folds, slow and deliberate.
“Already wet,” he murmured. “Of course you are. You get off on making me jealous.” Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling. “Don’t you?”
You tried to rock back onto his hand. He stopped moving completely.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I get off on it.”
He hummed, low and mean, and started fucking you with those two fingers in long, deep strokes. The rings on his hand brushed your clit every time he pulled out. You were already shaking when he suddenly stopped again, fingers still buried inside you.
“Don’t you dare come.”
You whimpered. He pulled his fingers out, wiped them across your lower lip, then pushed them into your mouth.
“Clean them.”
You sucked as Ilia watched you for a moment, then withdrew and shoved you forward so your chest hit the mattress, ass still high. The sound of his belt was loud in the quiet room. Fabric rustling. Then the blunt head of his cock dragged through your wetness, once, twice, teasing.
He didn’t give you the tip. He just kept sliding back and forth, coating himself, the metal of his rings pressing into the soft flesh of your hip where he held you steady.
“Beg.”
“Please—”
“Not good enough.” He tapped the head against your clit, light and cruel. “Beg like you mean it.”
“Please, Ilia, please fuck me— I need it, please—”
He pushed in halfway and stopped. The stretch made you moan, but he only gave you that much, holding your hips in an iron grip so you couldn’t take more.
“You think you deserve the rest after the way you acted tonight?” His voice was soft and vicious. “After you let that bastard’s hand linger on your arm like he had any right?”
You tried to push back. He held you still and pulled almost all the way out.
“Answer me.”
“No,” you gasped. “I don’t— please just—”
He slammed the rest of the way in on one hard thrust. The force knocked the air from your lungs. His rings dug into your hip as he started fucking you in deep, punishing strokes, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.
Every time you started to climb, he slowed. When your thighs trembled and your moans got high and desperate, he stopped completely, buried to the hilt, and waited until the edge faded. Then he started again—harder, meaner.
The third time he edged you, you were almost sobbing into the sheets. He reached around, gathered a mouthful of spit, and let it drip onto the small of your back before smearing it down between your cheeks with his thumb.
“Look at you,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Shaking. Dripping. Still not allowed to come.” His hand slid up your spine and closed lightly around your throat again, the rings cool and heavy against your pulse. He squeezed just enough to make your vision spark at the edges while he kept fucking you in short, brutal thrusts.
“You’re going to stay right on that edge until I say otherwise. And if you come without permission, I’ll put you on your knees and use that pretty mouth until you cry. Clear?”
“Yes— fuck— yes, Ilia—”
He spat again, this time onto the side of your face, then used two fingers to smear it across your cheek and into your open mouth. The dominance of it made you clench hard around him. He growled and tightened the hand on your throat just a fraction more.
“Greedy little thing. You love it when I’m mean to you.”
He edged you two more times after that—once with his cock buried deep and his fingers circling your clit so slowly it was torture, once with you flipped onto your back so he could watch your face while he fucked you in shallow, controlled strokes and denied you every time your eyes started to roll.
When he finally decided you’d had enough, he yanked you to the edge of the bed, shoved your knees up, and drove in hard. One hand stayed wrapped lightly around your throat. The other pinned both your wrists above your head, the metal of his rings pressing into your skin.
“Come,” he ordered, voice low and dark. “Come on my cock right fucking now.”
You shattered with a broken cry, pulsing hard around him. He fucked you through it without slowing, chasing his own release, and when he came it was with a rough groan and his forehead pressed to yours, still holding your throat, still mean even in the aftershocks.
He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried deep, breathing hard, thumb stroking once over the marks his rings had left on your wrist.
“Next time you decide to test me in front of sponsors,” he murmured against your mouth, “remember how this felt.”
BAD IDEA, RIGHT? — rockstar!ilia/popstar!fem!reader
☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆
Last season, Billboard called him the living reincarnation of a time past: sex, drugs, rock and roll. But right now, standing in front of you, he seems almost…shy.
OR: you’re pop’s newest princess, fresh out of a very public and humiliating breakup. And Ilia, an up-and-coming rockstar, agrees to make your ex jealous.
If it’s all for publicity, why do you feel yourself starting to fall for him?
a/n: musically, think of ilia as jeff buckley and you as sabrina carpenter. your ex is a grade A LOSER. also this is not proofread
─────────────────────────
You see it on the day you were supposed to announce your tour.
Your knocking pulse makes your chest pound. Words collapse in your throat.
There’s pictures plastered all over social media of your boyfriend cozying up with another girl. Her legs are swung over his lap. She’s squeezing one of his biceps with her hands. The other one’s flexed around her waist.
“What’s this?”
Your boyfriend mumbles something garbled through his toothbrush, bits of paste pooling at the corners of his mouth. Gross.
You shove your phone in his face. “What is this?”
Tears well at his eyes. He spits out his toothpaste. Starts hitting his head, blubbering about how he didn’t mean to and you’re the only one he really loves.
You smooth your palms over the duvet cover, if only to gain a semblance of something being pin-straight and orderly. And you lie.
“I’m not mad,” you say slowly, the words flooding your mouth with acidity. “Really. I get it. It’s hard to control your urges.”
You suck in a deep breath.
“But to be my boyfriend, you have to be a respectable person. And I just don’t think you are.”
He nods placidly, scouring your surroundings while fishing through his pockets. You’re about to burst from frustration when, finally, he speaks.
“Have you seen my vape?”
You storm into the closet, reaching for the nearest suitcase and shoving all your belongings in there. The few ones you had there, anyway, tucked in a rare, neat corner among the overgrowth of dirty laundry.
He shouts apologies as tears stream down his face. He hits his head, calling himself stupid, and blubbering incomprehensibly. Your irritation roars with the fire that’s been fed for the two years you’ve been together.
“Can you stop?”
Your voice cuts through the racket. He sniffles quietly as you feel your phone buzz nonstop. No doubt your manager asking if you wanted to postpone the tour announcement.
You yank your suitcase across the linoleum floors, flinching as the wheels screech. He doesn’t try to stop you from leaving.
Out of pure spite, you rip a poster off his wall by the door. His favorite poster, of his favorite artist - the epitome of nineties grunge with a cerebral twist, dirty basslines paired with raw, vulnerable vocals. The kind of artist whose public appearances were so rare that they made the morning news - Ilia Malinin.
Luckily for you, you were signed to the same company. And you needed an opener for your tour.
The proposition felt like a shot in the dark, if the shooting mechanism was a boomerang that could shred your ego and the “shot” was a tight shirt, a full beat, and practicing what you’d say to him on his way out. Hey, I’m going on tour this fall. Wanna join?
You’d never worked together. Hell, you’d never even met, and you weren’t sure if he’d want to headline a series of shows known for their glitz and glamour.
An hour passes, then two. Then every second seems to slug by, and the clock on the wall ticks too loud, and the blisteringly air-conditioned lobby feels stuffy, and fuck - you’re hungry. So you hunt down the vending machine, get yourself something-
And turn around to see the lead singer of said band eyeing your candy, then frown at the vending machine.
“What?” you ask, ripping open the plastic, pleased that the perforations weren’t weird and stubborn for once. (Clean tear. Perfect bite. And you ran into him. What a day.)
He’s still standing there. Still eyeing your candy, then the vending machine, and back. “You took the last one.”
You swallow a mouthful of chocolate. “Sorry. You want a bite?”
He seems surprised but nods eagerly. You rip off a few pieces, which he eats at lightning speed.
“Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver. These are my favorite chocolates.”
“Really?” You take a step closer. He pointedly looks at the space behind you, face flushing, fighting a smile. “It’s my favorite too.”
Last season, Billboard called him the living reincarnation of a time past: sex, drugs, rock and roll. Critics lauded his music like he was an angel sent down and cloaked in hedonism and mesh shirts. But right now, standing in front of you, he seems almost…shy.
His eyes finally flicker back to you.
“I’m Ilia, by the way. Don’t think we’ve met. By the way, I love your music.”
“Really?” you ask again, surprise making you falter in your half-baked market the hell out of this tour plan. “I didn’t strike you as the type.”
What surprises you is the ferocity of his enthusiasm. “Actually, yeah, I’m a huge fan. I’ve gone to your past two tours, undercover, because I was too intimidated to seek you out and ask, maybe, if you wanted to make a song together?”
You blanch. You’re beyond flattered by his fervor, and his request was exactly what you came here for, but you just about short circuit when he asks why you haven’t performed your favorite song of yours more - a song that only the superfans really bring up.
“No, of course, Ilia. I’d love to work with you and your band. I’m Not a Vampire has got to be one of my favorite albums ever. Reminds me of Massive Attack during the Mezzanine era with that textured, grungy feel.”
He lights up, trying (and failing) to compose himself as he puffs up with pride. “Wow, I’m so flattered. They’ve gotta be my biggest musical inspiration. I usually get the Jeff Buckley comparison, and don’t get me wrong - I love his work too, but this means a lot to me. Thank you.”
For a moment, you stand awkwardly beside each other. Then he looks to his feet, laughs quietly. With a dramatic huff, you gently nudge his side, beckoning him to follow you back to the studio.
Ilia listens as you hum a tune that comes to mind and improv on the keyboard. You expect him to lay it down heavy - a smoky guitar line that soars that fills your chest with devastating yearning.
Instead, he plays a few gentle yet complex chords that soar like a rock lullaby but drown out the other sounds.
You ask him to try a few new ones, and he obliges. He threads elements you would’ve never imagined: a quiet cymbal during the spots you’d usually add a sudden lull. You jot down lyrics on a notepad that he peers over at.
“Poetic,” he muses, looking over your notepad as you play back the latest recording. “Pop’s poetic princess.”
You pause the playback, caught off guard. “What?”
“That’s what everyone calls you. You don’t like it?”
You feel heat course through your body. “No, I like it. It’s just…” and you trail off. He stops bouncing his knee, the expanse of his thigh softening into his well-worn jean shorts. You force your attention back to your screen, jamming the spacebar and praying that the music will wash away the strange stirring in your chest.
“Okay, princess.”
Fuck. You wouldn’t mind if he called you that more often.
He hums a quiet melody, trying to find the right one - the one that’ll click the second he hears it.
You find that Ilia’s presence has a certain rhythm to it. He adjusts the timbre of his guitar-playing with such elasticity that the notes fall together into distinct shapes. He fills the pauses between your staccatoed bursts of thought without pressing against your creative vision.
You don’t realize that you’ve begun articulating a story about his cologne threading through your lungs until later, once you’ve had dinner.
“Citrus, pepper, sweet-ish wood,” he reads out. “You know, that’s not what I thought your ex would smell like.”
“What, you think he’d reek of perfume?”
“I mean, yeah, given who he’s seen with.” He grimaces mid-bite, shaking his head as he chews laboriously. “I’m really sorry. Been there, done that.”
“February 13th?” The image flits into your head: a highly publicized clip of his former bandmate and his then-girlfriend making out, then the TikTok reposts, then the sudden but understandable announcement that he was pursuing a solo career.
He nods. You absentmindedly chew on the same fry for about a minute.
“I’m sorry, Ilia.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s in the past, and it’s over. Plus, I get the chance to work with you.”
“Oh, so we’re just gonna be coworkers? I’m hurt.”
Ilia looks bashful, ducking his head. You can’t read his expression, and a sliver of worry weeds through your head until he laughs quietly.
“What?”
He gazes deeply into your face, worry lining the slopes and drawing his lips into a pout. Then, out of your peripherals, you notice - his hand sneaking out to steal one of your fries.
“Asshole!” You lunge forward, trying to pry it out of his clenched fists. “You know what, keep it. I don’t want your sweaty hand fries.”
You don’t realize how much time has passed until you make it back to the studio and realize the sun’s risen. Ilia mutters something about needing his beauty sleep and makes you promise him (pinky promise? he pouts) that you’ll cap your studio sessions at midnight next time.
“Next time?” you ask, acutely realizing that your pinky is still in his, and you’ve been standing there, immobilized in the parking lot, for far too long.
“Next time.” He nods.
Then next time slipped into weeks into months, and you found yourself visiting each other outside of the studio. You drag him out of bed in the mornings to go to the farmer’s market. He keeps you up to go on a night stroll, then tries to show off his gaming prowess (swearing up and down that he’s usually better than this - it’s an off night).
It took no convincing to get Ilia to do a joint tour with you. It took much effort, however, to get him to be satisfied with any of the songs you wrote together.
You groan as he surveys the stack of instruments along the walls once more - biting back a comment about the song being good enough when he settles back on his chair, unzipping an instrument case.
“You play the violin?” you ask in surprise.
“Before I got into rock, I was classically trained.” He nests the chinrest between his jaw and shoulder as he tightens the bow. “Jesus, this needs some rosin.”
After some tuning and Ilia complaining about the violin’s subpar maintenance, he scoots towards the mic, talking in a funny voice that makes you laugh. With a sigh, he kicks his chair back, standing so as to move his arms freely while playing.
There it is: sun-soaked notes that make the entire song shimmer.
Ilia sets the violin back in its place and slumps on the couch.
“You know that couch has been there for at least twenty years, right?”
He curls into a ball, picking at the frayed threads on the cushions. “Yeah, who cares.” He picks at the blisters on his fingers as you sip room temperature coffee. A yawn escapes you nonetheless.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the empty space on the couch.
“What?”
“We’ve been working for so long. Let’s take a break. I wanna get to know you - the real you. Not just the singer with a platinum record.”
A grin tugs at your lips. “You seem to know a lot about me. Am I that irresistible?"
He’s suddenly bashful, cheeks heating up as he ducks his head. “Yeah, well, what can I say? You kind of are, princess.”
“Ilia, I was joking.”
“I wasn’t. And I have an idea.”
“Go on.” You toss a pillow at him, which he attempts to catch in his mouth. The shit-eating grin on his face only seems to grow when you shoot him a disgusted look.
“What if we, uh, started a rumor?” Ilia buries his face in his hands, surprisingly shy. You pull at the pillow in his lap that was partially concealing his face.
“What?” His breath hitches when you accidentally graze his hair, and you wonder if you hadn’t imagined all of it - the way he’d sometimes go quiet when you started packing up, or the sharp stylistic increase in his outfits over time. Little things, like the way he’s looking at you now: his careful composure unraveling under the weight of something unreadable.
“You know, when my ex and I broke up, I really wanted to get back at her, which is unlike me. I wouldn’t say I’m a petty person or set out to, uh, get revenge on others, or anything like that. But I really like winning. Awards, yeah, but I win a lot of those. What I mean is winning the breakup.”
Ilia leans back, gauging your reaction and praying he doesn’t get an article written about him in the news tomorrow.
“For publicity,” you say, weighing each word carefully, though your heartbeat feels like it’ll burst from your sleeves. “You know, it’s funny you mention that. His favorite band was actually yours. Genuinely grieved when you left.”
“I know,” he deadpans. “I got an Instagram DM from him the day that I announced my departure.”
“You did not!”
“You want me to read it? Hold on, give me a second so I can pull it up. Ah!! Stop it!” He keels over as you tickle him, and then - then he’s on his back, and you’re half-straddling him, and when that lazy smile comes over his face, you crumple - fall onto your side on the couch, trying not to look him in the eye but catching his gaze anyway.
And he kisses you.
He’s breathless as he turns you on your back, showering your face with kisses. He drags a thumb down your lower lip, and your mouth closes around it. He hisses when you suck, teeth lightly grazing the flesh. You feel him throb through his pants.
“Hi, princess,” he says hoarsely, looking down at you in awe.
You rut your hips against his in retaliation. His eyes screw shut as he groans loudly.
“Easy. Be nice.”
You whine in frustration as he pulls away, opting instead to play with the strings of your hoodie.
Ilia’s a quick learner on and off the ice - he learns to kiss you in the ways that you like, kiss and tongue and suck in ways that render you an absolute mess under him. Fuck, you think, he’s ruined you. And the shit eating grin he delivers when you whine just a little bit too loud, grind into him and let him know you want him more than you’d let on - it just makes you wetter.
“Ilia…” you groan. “Please, please fuck me already.”
He wastes no time pulling off your shirt, then your pants, then everything - and he still has his on, even as your clawing at his back underneath the cotton shirt, letting your hands fall and dip beneath his belt buckle. You grip the length of him - wet, warm, and hard, and you shut your eyes, envisioning him inside you.
When he finally does, completely bare before you, you whine. You try to stifle it in his shoulder, but he hears it and grins.
“There you are,” he coos. “Atta girl.”
You swat his shoulder as he sinks back into you, every bit of your body firing up and clenching as he falls into a steady rhythm. It hits you then - Ilia Malinin, the hot rockstar, is fucking you, and you’re so wet that it squelches whenever he draws his hips back. The sound makes you wetter.
Ilia circles your clit with his spare hand - the other covering your mouth so any remaining personnel in the building can’t hear you whine into the air. You feel the familiar tightening in your stomach, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging so tightly that he has to bury his face in your shoulder, so as to not be too loud.
“Ilia,” you whimper through his hand. He gets the memo, speeding up his movements as you clench around him, tighter and whinier.
“You gonna cum, princess?” You nod, tears welling in your eyes as you see stars.
And Ilia’s still hard inside you, rocking his hips slowly back and forth as he screws his eyes shut.
“Ilia, want you to cum.”
He shakes his head, pouting. “Want you to cum again first.”
You fuck him in every position known to man - riding him one round (he’s impatient, needs to bounce you on his lap while he bites the pillow), getting it from the back another (he clasps your hands behind your back, letting you feel every inch of him as your clit rubs against the mattress), sucking him off (he cums so hard he almost kicks you in the face), him eating you out (he doesn’t stop once you’ve cum already).
As you doze off, head cradled in his arms, he whispers in your ear.
“Gonna miss you once the tour ends.”
You awaken to the faint sound of traffic outside, Ilia dozing soundly in your arms. You shake him awake.
“What?”
He blinks slowly through bleary eyes, and you briefly wonder what it’d be like to see that for the rest of your life.
“Time to go, sleepyhead.” You poke his nose.
He grunts, turning back over against the couch. “Don’t wanna.”
“Come on, Ilia.”
He groans dramatically, finally sitting up and smoothing out his hair. “Anything for you, princess.”
─────────────────────────
The song breaks the Billboard top 100. Rumors circulate, and Ilia is more than happy to feed them. You attend an award show together, go on dates that feel a little too private to be for show. Matching getups, Issey Miyake suits, vintage Dior dresses, camera crews swarming you on the red carpet, his oversized shirts turning into yours - if it’s for publicity, why do you feel yourself starting to dread the day tour ends?
Your friends shake their heads whenever you update them, knowing smiles on their faces. His joke about when the wedding’s coming, and you smile so hard that your face hurts.
Finally, the day comes.
You awaken bright and early, slamming the alarm off as you immediately flop back on the mattress.
“God, I’m so excited to never wake up this early for a while.”
Ilia remains silent. You shake him by the shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says, a strange bitterness in his voice, “me too.”
The show is, to say the least, one to go down in the books - perhaps your best yet. But he’s is in tears by the time you leave the stage.
“Ilia, what’s wrong?” you ask, racing to catch up to him as he sprints to the tour car. “Ilia!”
He stops right outside, desperately wiping his tears from his face.
“I never really cared about making your ex jealous,” he says. “I just wanted to spend more time with you. I thinkI’ve watched every interview you’re in. I thought of a million ways of how to approach you, but I couldn’t think of one that felt right. And then we met at the studio, and I thought we could be good collaborators, but-” he hiccups softly, “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
You guide him into the car, inviting him to sit, but he refuses.
“No. I think I’m gonna book a hotel tonight and probably fly back alone.”
“Ilia, please. Can’t we talk?”
You try to hug him, but he cowers away. Your chest stings, briefly recalling all the times that he’d jumped into your arms, how you’d laughed and kicked your feet as he picked you up and spun you in the air.
“Don’t you get it? It was never just about publicity. I just…fuck, I think I’m in love with you.” His red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and you crumble, tears beading at yours as well. “I’m sorry.”
You walk towards him in determined strides, grabbing his shoulders and bringing him in for a kiss. It’s bruising, and it makes him cry harder, but you do it anyway. And when you finally break away, you tell him the truth.
“I love you too, Ilia.”
He kisses you with fervor, picking you up and setting you on the couch. You tug at his shirt, coaxing him to take it off - then yours, and, without warning, he pushes inside of you. He whispers an apology as he picks up the pace, covering your mouth with a heavy, restrictive hand.
“Shh, princess. The fans are waiting outside. Don’t want them to hear us, do you?”
A half-gritted whine escapes through his teeth when you tug lightly on his hair.
“Want them to know how good you are to me,” you say earnestly.
“Don’t say that. Fuck-” and he cums instantly. Far quicker than he ever has. His face burns, swallowing down the perceived humiliation of finishing so fast.
You kiss his shoulder as he pulls out, replacing his dick with his fingers inside of you. “Ilia, it’s okay.”
“It’s embarrassing,” he grumbles, burying his face into your chest and greedily sucking on your tits. “Don’t want you to think bad things about me.”
You laugh quietly as he blows a raspberry at you. “You sound obsessed.”
“Yeah, princess. Yeah, fuck - maybe I am.”
─────────────────────────
Four months ago, a message from your ex-boyfriend to Ilia: Hi Ilia, I’m such a big fan of yours and would let you steal my girlfriend if you released the album
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i love having moots that have interests i have no idea about. my whole dashboard is filled with these guys called sidney crosby, oscar piastri, and mack c something i forgot his name. i have no idea what these people do and who they are but hell yeah i fw yall
did you know that there's a tunnel under ocean boulevard
[chapter one]
author's note: i'm glad everyone liked the prologue so much! i hope this lives up to the hype. explicit content ahead. there was a request for a taglist, so let me know if you'd like to be added. enjoy!
word count: 3.7k
taglist: @thetorturedpoetsdep
milano cortina winter olympic games, 2026
for the fourth time that morning, you reminded yourself that you were on regular ice. it was the exact same frozen h2o you’d always skated on. anything that felt different was entirely in your head.
with that in mind, you went into your triple flip again. it wasn’t perfect, but it was by far the best one you’d landed so far. you sighed and shook out your hands, very aware of the tension creeping into your body. you needed to work out your nerves before it was competition time.
amber skated up to you, smiling. “that looked great.”
you sighed. “it was the only good one i’ve had so far.”
she rolled her eyes. “none of them have been bad. make sure you don’t obsess over landing them all perfectly and leave your best jumps on the training ice.”
“you’re right,” you said, forcing yourself to relax slightly. “of course, you’re right.”
she smiled gently. “hey, it’s okay. i think everyone’s feeling it.”
you laughed. “except alysa. i swear, it’s like she can opt out of nerves.”
amber looked at you pointedly. “and it’s fine if that doesn’t work for you. just try to remember why you’re here, okay?”
you took a deep breath and nodded. “thanks, amber.” she smiled and skated off, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
she had a point. you certainly weren't here so you could waste the last twenty-ish years of your life because of nerves. your family had given so much to support your skating, and you wanted to make them proud and prove that it had all been worth it. besides, you really did love performing. there was something magical about the hush that fell over the crowd just before your music began. skating could be so freeing. it was the only way to love the best and worst parts of yourself.
the danger came from your determined pursuit of perfection. you didn’t want to settle for an okay triple axel or a clean enough combo. you had a tendency to get in your own head about tiny mistakes, unable to move on from minute imperfections. your body would guide you through the well-rehearsed motions, but despair would gnaw at your heart, creating cracks that sucked the soul out of your performance and dragged down your goes and pcs. still, there were little moments you relentlessly chased, little sparks of otherworldly highs when everything came together just right and you knew you were making people feel something. why even bother performing if you couldn’t reach that peak?
you remembered watching replays of old competitions when you were little. you’d taken one look at michelle kwan’s championship skate from 1998 and decided you were going to beg your parents to let you go to a rink. you’d quickly become enamored with the passion and intensity all the skaters left on the ice. you hoped that some little girl would watch you perform in a few days and ask for skates for her birthday.
but before you could go around inspiring little girls, you had to polish a few things. you glanced at the clock on the arena wall and sighed. there wasn’t much time left before your practice session was up. you took a deep breath and started your free skate step sequence. you hated feeling like you’d skimped on the spins and step sequence so you could focus on jumps instead.
you came out of the step sequence and headed into your triple lutz-triple toe combo. it was your favorite of the combos you did, and you caught it just right. you smiled to yourself, unable to help it, as you landed cleanly. you’d been relentlessly working on that lutz edge after nationals.
a buzzer sounded, signaling the end of your practice time. you skated to the boards, wondering if you could’ve put a little more into the step sequence.
“that combo was lovely. you almost came out of your head.” you beamed at your coach. a gruesome acl tear had ended aleksandra ivanova’s competitive career before it had properly begun, but she always said she was grateful it had happened, or she wouldn’t have become a coach. still, you wondered if she missed it.
“thanks, sasha,” you said as she handed you your skate guards. “it felt good.”
she helped you pull on your team usa jacket. “think less about the triple flip.”
you fidgeted with your sleeve. no matter what you did, you couldn’t seem to get out of your own way. the triple flip was your most consistent jump, and you’d managed to make a mess of it on multiple occasions today. “i’ll try.”
she gently tapped under your chin. “trust yourself. you did well. i’m proud of you.”
you smiled softly. “thank you.” regardless of how your practice sessions and competitions went, she always made a point to tell you she was proud of you and the work you’d put in. you really appreciated it.
“you’ll be ready for friday,” she said firmly. “take it easy tomorrow. you don’t want to have to make a hard choice.”
you nodded. “i won’t push.” she looked at you pointedly, and you smiled thinly. “i promise.”
“good.” she smiled. “what do you have this evening?”
you thought back to something amber had said over breakfast. “we don’t have anything official, but i think amber’s organizing group dinner.” and you’ll probably see a certain quad-jumping someone, but she didn’t need to know that. you fought the smile threatening to show itself on your face and quickly tried to think of something innocent. “uh, and gelato?”
sasha didn’t comment on your poor attempt to pass off gelato as the reason for your sudden delight. “well, that sounds nice.” she smiled gently. “try to have fun.”
you nodded and picked up your water bottle. “i will.”
she headed off to speak with another coach, and you sipped water and waited for amber so you could head back to the village together. as you stood there, the next group of skaters came in. your heart skipped a beat as ilia walked toward you. he looked unfairly good, wearing his team usa jacket over a tight black shirt that clung to him a little too well.
you bit your lip and desperately tried to think of something unsexy. what was unsexy? american politics? too late. he grinned at you as he walked by with mikhail shaidorov, and you immediately felt weak in the knees.
over the last month, not much had really changed between you and ilia. when you weren’t busy with practice, conditioning, or analyzing footage, you hung out like always. the only difference was the addition of hooking up to your rotation of leisure activities.
you’d be lying if you said it hadn’t been great so far. strict adherence to the agreed-upon rules meant that you’d successfully snuffed out whatever ridiculous lingering feelings you may have had for him. you might even dare to call what you were having fun. it was an easy and convenient way to work out any stress you felt from the upcoming games, and it didn’t infringe on your friendship. your arrangement was just an added bonus to what you would’ve done anyway. so what if a movie ended with really good sex on the couch? who cared if you gave him head for clearing a new level on geometry dash? none of it meant anything. right?
at your side, amber cleared her throat. “is there something you need to tell me?”
heat rushed to your cheeks as you tore your gaze away from ilia. “no!”
she laughed. “okay, whatever you say. let me know if that changes.” she slung her arm around you. “are you still down for dinner?”
“oh, definitely. there’s no keeping me away from the gelato.”
–
as it turned out, you could be kept away from the gelato, or at least seriously delayed in getting to it. fifteen minutes before dinner, you’d gotten a text from ilia.
torgs left. come over?
you hadn’t even bothered to reply.
a few minutes later, he pulled you into his room. you barely had a chance to kick off your shoes before he pressed your back against the door. “fucking finally,” he groaned, immediately attaching his lips to your neck. “i’ve been waiting for this since we got here.”
you bit your lip to stifle a sigh and quickly pushed his jacket off his shoulders. “we have to hurry. amber wants us all to meet for dinner in fifteen minutes.” and you’re more than a little worked up, judging by the wetness gathering between your thighs.
he smirked and pulled his shirt over his head. “well, we both know i don’t need that long to make you come.” he glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “uh, this may be slightly complicated. the beds aren’t super sturdy, but at least they aren’t made of cardboard this time. i think that was a thing in paris.”
your eyes widened as you stared at the bed, trying desperately to not ogle him. “cardboard beds? how did they ever think that was a good idea?” and would anyone really notice if he showed up to the team event with a hickey?
“these are the same geniuses who never supply enough condoms.”
you felt a wave of disappointment roll over you. “are they out already?” he shook his head, and you sighed in relief. “oh, thank god.” that was a potentially career-ending risk you didn’t want to take.
he laughed and smoothly relieved you of your leggings and underwear. “don’t worry. if that’s an issue, i’ll just eat you out until you can’t feel your legs.”
you clenched your thighs together at the thought. he’d done that before, and your legs had actually given out when you’d tried to stand up. judging by his smug smile, he was still entirely too pleased with himself. “tempting, but someone might ask questions if you have to carry me to dinner.”
he kissed your jaw; you moaned quietly and leaned against him. it hadn’t taken him long to identify the sensitive spots that made your knees weak. “how about this: i’ll fuck you against the door right now, and we can see how durable the bed is when we have more time?”
“yes, please.”
he grinned cockily and scooped you up with ease. you wrapped your legs around his waist as he pinned your back to the door and teasingly ran his fingers through your soaked folds. “holy shit, you’re wet.”
“don’t tease,” you whined. “ilia, don’t tease.”
he made a show of licking your slick off his fingers. “can i eat you out after dinner? please?”
you gently ran your hand through his hair, pushing his unruly blond waves out of his eyes and trying to suppress the inexplicable urge to do something really stupid like kiss him. you weren’t going to break the rules you’d come up with. “well, i’d be an idiot if i turned down that offer.”
to your surprise, he hummed quietly and leaned into your touch. there was something unbelievably soft in his eyes that made your chest tighten.
suddenly, someone knocked on the door. the moment was gone, and you felt panic race through you. ilia froze then gestured that you should be quiet. “well, duh,” you mouthed.
“the doors are thin,” he hissed. “uh, yeah?” he called.
“ilia?” your eyes widened at the sound of maxim’s voice. shit. “amber wants us to meet for dinner, remember?”
ilia smirked at you and pulled one of the complimentary condoms out of his pocket. you knew what he was thinking, and you ignored the rational part of your brain that urged you to be smart and stop. clearly, he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said how much he’d been looking forward to seeing you. “yeah, i know,” he said, his voice mostly cool. “i’ll be there in a few minutes.”
you bit your lip as he opened the condom wrapper with his teeth and pushed his pants down enough to free his cock. your chest heaved in anticipation as he put on the condom and teasingly slid the tip of his dick through your folds. “stop fucking teas–oh–” your eyes rolled into the back of your head as he suddenly slammed into you.
“what was that?” maxim asked, sounding very confused.
“i said i’ll be there in a few minutes,” ilia said, his voice slightly strained. “i’m–fuck–playing, uh, block blast.”
you dug your nails into his back, gasping quietly, as he gave you a second to adjust. the stretch was almost too good, and the angle meant he was already hitting the spot that made your vision go blurry.
by some miracle, maxim left. ilia slid his hand behind your head, protecting you from a potential concussion. “are you okay?”
his voice was rougher than usual, and you felt yourself clench around him as you nodded quickly. “yeah, yeah, i’m fine.” you choked out a strangled whine and took a deep breath. “can you move, please?”
he grinned. “hold on to me.”
broken moans spilled from your lips as he began to mercilessly pound into you. you clung to him desperately, raking your fingers through his hair as he kissed your neck. your back arched off the door when he ground his pelvis against you, catching your clit. “fuck!”
“you feel so good,” he groaned against your skin. “taking it so well.”
you hoped nobody was in the hallway, because they would definitely know what was going on. “harder,” you begged. “harder.”
he did exactly as you asked, pushing one of your legs up slightly as he drilled into you. the angle made your eyes flutter shut as you dug your nails into his back, desperately trying to hold on. the slight stinging seemed to turn him on more, and he moaned loudly. “fuck, someone’ll see if i wear a tank top.”
you quickly moved your hands so you were clinging to his shoulders instead. “sorry.”
“no,” he whined. “why’d you stop? i don’t care if they see.” you couldn’t think of a reason to care. if he really needed to, he could make up a story about trying to pet a very unfriendly stray cat or something. his hips stuttered slightly when you raked your fingers across his back again, and he slid his hand between your thighs to toy with your swollen clit.
you could feel the orgasm building in your core. god, what had it taken, two minutes? “ilia,” you moaned, “i’m gonna come.”
he kept up the pace, his thumb tracing merciless circles on your clit. “yeah? already?”
“shut up,” you whined. “feels too good.”
he laughed against your neck. “i know it does.” he suddenly used the hand that was cradling your skull to tilt your head so he could hold your gaze. “you’re fucking perfect, you know that?”
your thighs trembled as you shattered around his cock, still clinging to him as you rode out the waves of ecstasy. you could feel his breath on your lips as he followed you into bliss with a gasp of your name.
you stayed like that for a few moments, trying to remember how to take in oxygen as he held you up against the wall. eventually, you realized that the ringing in your ears was actually your phone buzzing in your jacket pocket on the floor. you groaned. “we are so late for dinner.”
he hissed in a breath as he slowly pulled out of you and set you back on your feet. your legs shook for a moment, and he grinned as he steadied you. “careful.”
you rolled your eyes and smiled softly. “worth it.”
he brushed your hair out of your face, his palm lingering against your cheek, then seemed to realize that you were crunched for time. he disposed of the condom and threw you your leggings and underwear before he slid his pants up.
you wriggled into your clothes. “so, do you want to wait a few minutes after i head down?”
he pulled his shirt over his head. “uh, yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”
he picked up your jacket and held it out for you, smiling crookedly. pleasant heat filled your chest as he helped you put it on. he even zipped it up to your chin, where his hand lingered. you reached for it before you could stop yourself and squeezed gently. “thanks, ilia.”
he squeezed your hand back and let go, reluctance clear in his eyes. “i’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?”
you nodded as he walked you to the door. as it closed behind you and you headed for the cantine, you felt a wave of sadness wash over you. you used to be able to just go places with him. why had that changed? you wondered what it would be like to walk in with him, not caring who saw you.
–
as you took a bite of your pasta, isabeau frowned. “this isn’t as good as my nonna’s.”
you laughed, having heard tales of her grandma’s lasagna. “isa, the bar was too high.”
she snickered. “damn right.”
next to isabeau, alysa shrugged. “it tastes fine.”
to your left, amber tapped her fingers restlessly. “does anyone know where ilia is?”
“he’s playing block blast,” you said casually.
maxim frowned from where he sat on isabeau’s other side. “still?”
andrew groaned as he finished his slice of pizza. “do we have to wait for him to get dessert?”
alysa grinned. “nope. his loss.”
you took a sip of orange juice, which you’d stupidly decided to pair with your pasta, and grimaced. “this was a terrible idea. amber, why did you let me do this?”
she laughed. “i can’t be there to stop you every time you make a bad decision!”
you groaned. “i was trying to be healthy! the lady at the juice bar said it has vitamin d in it.” you grimaced, because it probably contained a bunch of extra sugar, too. “i was thinking about my lutz edge instead of what would go well with lasagna.” actually, you’d been thinking about where you could meet ilia after dinner, but you didn’t need to mention that.
alysa snickered. “i think you already got that vitamin d.”
your eyes widened and heat rushed to your face, the innuendo not lost on you. “what?”
maxim quickly took a sip of water, andrew hid a laugh in a cough, isabeau aggressively stared at her lasagna, and amber massaged her temples in exasperation. alysa smiled innocently. “you had eggs this morning. what did you think i meant?”
“oh,” you said. “uh, nothing.” you mentally kicked yourself for making a mess of that.
amber ran a hand through her blond hair and mercifully changed the subject. “who's ready for the team event?”
alysa laughed and lowered her voice goofily, imitating a reporter. “is another gold in the cards for team usa?”
andrew rolled his eyes. “if ilia’s as late to the competition as he is to dinner, i think your hope for that is riding on me.”
amber smiled. “and you’d be great.”
he seemed to appreciate the vote of confidence. “well, let’s hope the quad god deigns to make an appearance with us mere mortals so we don’t have to hope i beat yuma and shun.” he glanced behind you. “oh, speak of the devil, and he appears.”
ilia sat down in the empty seat next to you, his plate filled with macaroni. he grinned. “what’d i miss?” you tried to ignore how your heart raced when his shoulder brushed yours.
“not much,” alysa said, “but i’m not waiting for you to eat before i get dessert.”
he shrugged and took a bite of pasta. “what can i say? i’m devoted to block blast.”
alysa rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she got up to get dessert. “yeah, whatever you say.”
maxim glanced between amber, you, and ilia. “how are you feeling about this weekend?”
ilia shrugged. “ready to make some headlines.” he took another bite of macaroni, but you could see a slight hint of tension in his shoulders. you felt the sudden urge to lean against him, and you couldn’t figure out why.
you forced yourself to look away from him. “hopefully, i can make everyone else’s jobs easier,” you said thinly. you’d been watching highlights of kaori sakamoto’s programs over the last few weeks. your advantage was your triple axel. if you could land the axel, nail your triple flip, and catch your lutz edge right, there was a pretty good chance you’d win the short program. that would be a huge advantage and a real statement on the first day. there would be a far greater margin of error for everyone else if you could deliver.
“we’ve got each other’s backs,” amber said. “no matter what happens, we’ll look out for each other.”
you smiled at her gratefully. “thanks, amber.”
next to you, ilia grinned. “we’re golden. we've got the queen of pep talks!”
amber rolled her eyes, but she looked nervous despite his sincerity. you reached for her hand and squeezed gently. “we’ve got this.”
alysa reappeared with a huge tray of desserts, grinning. “i hate to crash this touching moment, but who wants dessert?”
you took a shaky breath and forced a smile. “do you have gelato?”
she set the tray down. “gelato, tiramisu, lava cakes, some mysterious cupcake thing that looks really good, cookies decorated like skates, and jello!”
she slid you a cup of gelato, which immediately improved your mood. you took an eager bite and gasped. “oh, this is really good!”
“i know you like raspberries,” she said innocently. you ignored her comment, though heat rushed to your cheeks.
ilia, who had just finished his pasta, looked up eagerly. “gimme!” he swiped your spoon and quickly took a bite. “oh, that is good.”
“get your own, lutz boy!” you fought the urge to smile as you took your spoon back.
he gasped, faux-offended, then grinned and reached for his own dessert. “bossy.”
despite the cold gelato, something warm fizzled in your chest. you took another bite and forced yourself to think about your upcoming short program. you couldn’t afford to get distracted now, not with olympic gold at stake.
as someone who isn’t on twitter, i saw a video of people saying ilia was in a bar and drunk at nyc or something of the sort? can anyone educate me please🙏🏻
summary: You were outraged by the way this year's World Cup had been organized, and despite being a die-hard football fan, you had no intention of joining your famous athlete boyfriend for the final in New Jersey. But the moment you found out your national team had made it to the final, there was no way you could pass up the chance to witness Spain lift the World Cup trophy for only the second time in its history — and, if only for a night, feel a little closer to home.
content: established relationship, football, in this house we hate FIFA and support España, melancholy, spanish reader, world cup 2026, argentina vs spain, ilia knows shit about football, strong language, alcohol, sexual content MDNI, reader is a little grumpy (and homesick :<), bittersweet ending
word count: 9k
author’s note: Yoo, I've been a huge football fan since I was a kid, so the second I saw Ilia at the World Cup final, I had to write a one-shot inspired by it. Hala Madrid btw 🤍 I also love Spain. I took one of my high school final exams in Spanish, and even though I only lived there for 2 months, I still feel somehow connected to the country. At the same time, I always felt a little out of place because everyone around me seemed to live so differently from me, and I wanted to capture what the reader might've been feeling while being so far away from home (I genuinely can't write anything happy and silly without sneaking in at least a little angst).
As for the match... Argentina played such a dirty, brutal game in the final that I was genuinely embarrassed for some of their fans. Their players kept trying to provoke almost everyone, especially Olmo and Rodri — and earlier in the tournament, Bellingham, too. And I'm not even gonna get started on what happened after they beat France in 2022. So honestly, I don't feel bad about the reader talking so much shit about them in this one-shot 😭English isn't my first language, so some of the sentences might be a little too long. Thanks for reading! <3
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
Had someone told you a year and a half ago that Spain would reach the World Cup final, you would've been only mildly surprised. After all, just two years earlier you'd stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands in the streets of Madrid, celebrating La Roja's triumph at the Euros, your faith in Luis de la Fuente bordering on religious devotion — though, in one deeply unpatriotic lapse before the group stage had even begun, you'd put a few dollars on France winning the whole tournament. Thankfully, it had only been a handful of bills, so the damage to your wallet had been negligible.
If, however, someone had dared to tell you that you would attend the World Cup final with your boyfriend — a world-famous figure skater, no less — you would've laughed straight in their face, though you wouldn't have known which part of the prediction deserved more ridicule. Back then, the notion of being in a relationship at all would've sounded infinitely more absurd than going to New Jersey for a championship match whose ticket prices bordered on financial insanity.
Truthfully, the fact that you'd spent eighteen months living in Virginia in the United States, working in a research laboratory, had already seemed like an act of beautiful madness.
You had almost turned the offer down. When your university first approached you with the opportunity, you'd spent an entire week trapped in relentless deliberation, your thoughts circling themselves into exhaustion. You hadn't wanted to leave behind your family, friends or beloved city.
And yet, here you were now, thousands of miles from home, nerves devouring you alive as Spain prepared to contest the World Cup final, sitting in the passenger seat of Ilia Malinin's car while your emotions crashed inside you like restless waves against a cliff face.
"Can you please hurry up?" you urged, barely disguising the panic creeping into your voice. You were the more experienced driver when it came to long-distance trips, but your thoughts were too scattered, your pulse too frantic, to trust yourself behind the wheel.
"I literally can't go any faster here!"
"You can," you argued stubbornly. "You just don't wanna break the speed limit." Your accusatory stare lingered on his profile. "This is gonna be your fault if we're late."
"Oh my Goood," Ilia groaned, never taking his eyes off the road ahead. "We're not gonna be late. We're getting there, like... two hours early."
Then, after a beat, the corner of his mouth curled into a smug little smile.
"And besides..." he said, his voice dripping with innocent mischief, "it's not entirely my fault." He spared you the briefest sideways glance. "If I remember correctly, you seemed to be enjoying yourself too." His grin widened.
At the memory of how, less than two hours earlier, Ilia had slowly eaten you out on your living room couch before fucking you like the world was about to end, heat rushed to your face so fast it painted even the tips of your ears crimson. Although your boyfriend was usually shy around you, every now and then — especially in moments like this — he transformed into someone almost unbearably cocky.
The moment he'd come to pick you up and caught sight of you standing there in Spain's jersey and a short skirt, he'd completely lost his mind, shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that your roommate wasn't home. Luckily, the drive from Reston to New Jersey wasn't unbearably long (just under three hours along the interstate) which meant you could afford to leave a little later than planned, though dragging Ilia out of your bed had still required considerable effort, and in the end you'd had to promise that you'd blow him in the car after the match before he'd finally agreed to get up and gather the clothes he'd scattered all over your freshly mopped floor.
And even if you were pretending to be angry now, you had to admit he wasn't wrong — you'd enjoyed yourself perhaps a little too much, especially whenever he pleasured you with his mouth. He was far too good at that, and you secretly adored it.
Maybe not all that secretly, considering you ended up muffling yourself against a pillow every single time, something Ilia never failed to scold you for, because he loved listening to you moan broken, incoherent sentences in Spanish, while you, in turn, loved hearing him murmur Russian curses against your ear while he was buried deep inside you.
"Anyway..." You cleared your throat, eager to steer the conversation somewhere infinitely safer. "Do you think Ramos is gonna be in the stands? He has to be. Maybe we'll spot him somewhere. I mean, he'll probably be sitting in one of the VIP boxes again, like last time with Iker Casillas and Iniesta, but-"
"Y/N," Ilia cut in before you could tumble headfirst into another emotionally fueled monologue, "I have absolutely no clue who you're talking about."
You shot him a look dripping with theatrical disappointment. As someone who had supported Real Madrid practically since birth (your father had been taking you to the Bernabéu from the moment you turned four) you genuinely couldn't comprehend how anyone could possibly not know who Sergio Ramos was.
"But I do know Cucurenda signed for Real Madrid!" he added hastily, clearly attempting to salvage what little dignity remained.
You rolled your eyes so dramatically they nearly disappeared into your skull.
"It's Cucurella, you dork," you corrected, unable to suppress the grin tugging at your lips. "And where the hell did you even hear that?"
"Well, you reposted it on Instagram. He’s, like, good, no?"
You laughed quietly and said nothing more.
Ilia hadn't the faintest clue about football. You had never managed to break him of calling it soccer, could never make him understand why he couldn't cheer for every single team at the World Cup — "They're literally all GOATs," as he insisted — or why supporting both Atlético and Real Madrid at the same time bordered on sacrilege. In return, he failed spectacularly every time he tried to explain the latest rule changes introduced by the ISU (which couldn't possibly have interested you less) and despite his endless patience, he still hadn't succeeded in teaching you how to tell a Lutz from a Flip; to your untrained eyes, every jump looked exactly the same. When it came to stubborn resistance against learning anything about each other's sports, the two of you complemented one another perfectly.
And yet, despite the relentless schedule that consumed your days in the laboratory, you almost always found time to watch him train. The staff at SkateQuest greeted you with the same warmth they reserved for the coaches themselves, and Tatiana had even given you a handful of skating lessons. Simply putting on a pair of skates had terrified you beyond reason, but you'd swallowed your fear for one reason alone — to make Ilia happy. You had cheered him on from the stands at Nationals that year, flown to Milan for the free skate that had shattered his Olympic dream, and stayed beside him through the entire night afterward, quietly gathering the broken pieces of his heart after the unforgiving Olympic ice had crushed everything he'd worked toward.
Now it was Ilia's turn to give something back.
Truthfully, he wasn't particularly interested in the match, or even the World Cup itself, save for the occasional Haaland and Mbappé memes, but he'd wanted to make you happy, so not only had he accepted invitation to the final, he'd practically begged his agent to secure him an extra ticket. Lately, he'd begun to feel as though your entire relationship revolved around him, and although you'd never once complained, he wanted the two of you to spend a day doing something that genuinely belonged to your world.
He simply loved watching you smile.
And from the moment you'd walked up to MetLife Stadium, that smile hadn't left your face, even though you'd spent weeks insisting you didn't want to go. After the VAR scandals, the overturned red card for the United States, the commercial pauses disguised as hydration breaks, and what you considered disgraceful officiating throughout the tournament, you'd stubbornly declared that you wanted nothing to do with what you called a rigged World Cup. But the instant Spain eliminated France in the semifinal, every ounce of that determination had evaporated. There had never been any chance you would willingly miss the opportunity to witness your national team lift the World Cup for only the second time in its history. You'd been just a child when Spain conquered the football world in 2010, and now, more than anything, you wanted to relive those same impossible emotions.
You were also terribly homesick, and coming to MetLife Stadium meant surrounding yourself, if only for one evening, with fellow Spaniards whose celebrations might momentarily fool your heart into believing you hadn't left home at all. Besides, you hadn't wanted to disappoint Ilia by sulking through a day he'd gone to such lengths to arrange for you, so you kept your scathing opinions about the tournament's organization mostly to yourself... at least for a few hours.
The moment you found out who'd been appointed referee for the final, you resumed complaining without missing a beat.
Fortunately, Ilia had grown accustomed to your endless grumbling and, for reasons that remained entirely beyond your comprehension, considered it rather adorable, whereas most people simply found you exhausting.
"I still don't get why you wouldn't wear the La Roja jersey I bought you," you said as he finished recording a clip for his Instagram Story. You'd made him check the frame twice to make absolutely certain you weren't visible; you valued your privacy far too much to let the fans of your ridiculously famous boyfriend know you even existed.
Which was becoming increasingly difficult, considering some people had long since forgotten where admiration ended and stalking began.
"Because I like Argentina too," he explained, slipping his phone into the pocket of his brown shorts. "I kinda didn't wanna look, I dunno, biased."
"Oh, really?" you scoffed. "Then name one Argentinian player besides Messi if you're such a huge fan."
His nose scrunched up the way it always did when he was thinking, and after a long, thoughtful silence, he ventured carefully,
"Uh... Maradona?" He shot you a cautious sidelong glance — another one of his unconscious nervous habits.
"He's dead," you replied with perfect seriousness.
"Oh." He blinked. "Right."
For a while, the two of you wandered aimlessly around the entrance gates, taking commemorative photos beneath the towering banners draped across the stadium. You passed Javier Bardem, then Robert Lewandowski, and Ilia nearly let out a delighted squeak the moment he recognized the Polish striker. You, meanwhile, feigned complete indifference, reminding yourself that Lewy had worn Barcelona colors until not so long ago, though inwardly you were just as thrilled as Ilia was.
Once your wristbands had been checked and you'd finally made your way inside, you split up. Ilia disappeared toward FIFA's celebrity photo wall alongside the other invited guests, while you, shrinking instinctively from the relentless flashes of photographers' cameras, escaped toward the food court in search of something to eat.
You joined the line for pizza and drinks behind a group of young men wrapped proudly in Spanish flags. At first, you merely listened, too shy to interrupt them, but when you overheard them debating Michael Olise's rumored transfer from Bayern Munich to Real, your courage finally overcame your hesitation, and you joined the conversation.
As it turned out, they'd flown all the way from Madrid. A warmth you hadn't realized you were starving for blossomed somewhere deep inside your chest as you found yourself telling them which neighborhood you'd lived in before moving to the United States, reminiscing about the afternoon after an El Clásico when Casemiro had signed your father's jersey, your words carrying a homesickness that needed no explanation among people who spoke your language.
Long after you'd bought your food and eaten it, the five of you remained leaning against a concrete pillar, talking as though you had known one another for years instead of minutes. The boys were wonderfully kind, and when the time finally came to part ways because their seats were on the other sector in the stand from yours and Ilia's, so they had to use a different set of stairs, you found yourself unexpectedly reluctant to let the conversation end.
You thanked them sincerely before saying goodbye, absurdly happy that, for the first time in months, you'd been able to speak your native language with someone other than your parents over FaceTime.
You never even noticed when Ilia returned from the photo wall. He spotted you immediately despite the sea of people and slipped quietly through the crowd before wrapping his arms around you from behind.
You startled so violently that you instinctively jerked away, nearly dropping both your beer and the fruit juice you'd bought for your boyfriend. For one glorious, panic-stricken second, you were convinced Argentine goalkeeper Emiliano Martínez had finally come to strangle you in retaliation for every scathing tweet you'd ever written about him.
"Ilyushenkaaa," you scolded, turning to face him with an exasperated sigh. "Don't scare me like that. You promised you'd behave. Someone could see."
He immediately pushed out his lower lip and looked at you like a sad, lost puppy. Your resolve melted on the spot.
Physical affection had always been Ilia's love language. Despite being cautious, painfully shy, and instinctively guarded around strangers, he hugged his friends and his parents whenever the opportunity presented itself, usually for no reason whatsoever.
He was, in many ways, nothing more than an oversized baby, and you adored that about him more than you were ever willing to admit, even if it occasionally meant having to rein him in whenever you were out in public.
"But you look so pretty," he whined softly. "Besides, nobody here knows who I am. I'm not that famous. Everyone's looking at that old dude from The Rolling Stones and Matt Damon."
You frowned in theatrical disbelief before handing him the outrageously overpriced fruit juice. He accepted it with an expression of heartfelt gratitude.
"That old dude? You mean Mick Jagger?"
He nodded matter-of-factly.
"Yeah. Whatever his name is."
"Right." You couldn't help grinning as you teased him. "Honestly, I'm surprised you even know what he and Matt Damon look like."
"What's so strange about that?!"
"Because you're the same guy who couldn't even recognize Justin Timberlake."
His earlier mistake still amused you almost as much as the first time you'd convinced him to play FIFA16 with you, when he'd enthusiastically scored an own goal because he'd somehow convinced himself your net was his.
"I know who he is now!" he protested. "I swear I can tell NSYNC and One Direction apart! I did my research."
You cast a quick, careful glance around the concourse to make sure no one was paying the two of you any attention and, to your immense relief, everyone was far too absorbed in their own conversations to notice.
So you leaned in and kissed him, just to quiet him. He smiled against your lips, melting into the kiss so completely that he nearly tipped the cup of juice straight onto your shirt.
After that brief exchange of affection, you finished the last of your beer, and together you made your way to your seats. Warmed ever so slightly, and mercifully calmed, by the alcohol, you finally gathered the courage to edge closer to Ilia and lace your fingers through his.
He looked more than delighted.
Once you'd settled into the stands, Ilia, already growing impatient with the endless wait for kickoff, absentmindedly began scrolling through TikTok while you occupied yourself by studying the people around you. Most of the supporters seated nearby wore Argentina jerseys, which did little to improve your mood, though you eventually spotted a handful of Spanish fans scattered throughout the section. Two rows below yours, you also recognized Lindsey Vonn, whom Ilia had met earlier at the FIFA photo wall.
With every passing minute that carried you closer to the opening whistle, your nerves tightened another impossible degree as the magnitude of the occasion finally settled over you. Your palms were slick with sweat, your fingers trembled as you replied to your father's text asking whether you'd made it to the stadium safely, and throughout the closing ceremony you found yourself rolling your eyes so often at the relentless spectacle and manufactured grandeur that they almost ached, while Tom Cruise's unexpected appearance to deliver yet another hollow motivational speech made you laugh outright.
"I swear this has to be the trailer for another Mission: Impossible," you muttered, barely containing your grin. "Except this one's for Argentina."
Ilia wisely chose not to comment. He was trying very hard to remain neutral. That resolve lasted precisely until Lionel Messi stepped onto the pitch. He applauded enthusiastically.
You stared at him in horror.
"Why are you clapping for him? Are you dumb or what?" you demanded, elbowing him in the ribs. "Stop it."
"But he's the GOAT," Ilia protested innocently. "Honestly, you're, like... way too prejudiced."
Your blood practically caught fire.
"Prejudiced? I'm a Madridista, dude. Of course I don't like him. He should've been sent off with a red card at the beginning of the tournament!"
Two elderly men wearing Argentina shirts with SIMEONE stretched proudly across their shoulders turned around to glare at you in obvious annoyance. You came dangerously close to flipping them off. At the last possible second, you restrained yourself. Ilia had invited you here. The least you could do was avoid humiliating him.
Then again, football supporters obeyed entirely different laws of nature, especially when their national team was fighting for a World Cup.
Barely five minutes into the match, when Unai Simón rushed off his line to clear a dangerous ball before Messi could reach it, your heart nearly burst straight through your ribs. You squeezed Ilia's hand so hard you were fairly certain you were breaking at least two of his fingers.
Your anxiety was written plainly across your face, and it only worsened. As the minutes crawled by, you repeatedly reached toward your own hair in utter despair every time another Spanish player was hacked down by an Argentine challenge while Slavko Vinčić seemed determined to pretend he'd witnessed absolutely nothing.
"This referee is a complete disaster," you fumed, springing to your feet yet again. "He's blind! This is NOT a referee worthy of a World Cup final! He already showed exactly how useless he was back in Poland versus Sweden! I know, because I watched it with Polish guy from my lab. He almost smashed his laptop out of frustration."
A woman about your age sitting behind you, who appeared far more invested in her phone than the match itself, finally asked you to stop fidgeting because you kept blocking her view. Without missing a beat, you answered in Spanish that perhaps she should get back to watching Jude Bellingham edits instead… which, admittedly, you secretly liked from time to time yourself.
"I dunno..." Ilia said carefully, attempting to defend the official despite himself. "Looks like he kinda knows what he's doing… I guess."
Even with all his admiration for Messi, however, he couldn't deny that Argentina had been playing aggressively.
"He doesn't know shit," you snapped. "They only picked him because he's Slovenian, just like Trump's wife. Fucking Argentina-Fifantina, man, ugh. Even La Liga refs have more competence, and they're practically blind and allergic to using VAR. This whole World Cup is a fucking joke. First, the sensor in the ball detects a goal that was offside by a hair's breadth, then the ball bounces off some stupid camera cable, and England eliminates Norway — what happens next? Maybe the aliens bought by the italian printer kidnap Laporte or Pedro Porro during halftime. ¡El calvo les arregló todo el campeonato y ni siquiera lo disimula!"
You hadn't even realized you'd switched back into Spanish, your hands slicing emphatically through the air as your outrage gathered momentum.
"What?"
"The bald guy — Infantino. He is the FIFA president. He rigged the whole tournament for Argentina and isn't even trying to hide it anymore." You jabbed a finger toward the field. "Did you see how Paredes shove Olmo? That asshole didn’t even see yellow!"
"...Which one's Paredes?"
Ilia glanced helplessly toward the jumbotron overhead, desperately trying to work out who was who.
"The guy wearing number five." You barely paused for breath. "That idiot Vinčić has to be bribed! I can't believe he still hasn't shown a single card! I'm seriously gonna march down there and kill him. ¡Voy a matar a ese idiota, lo juro!"
Several supporters dressed in Spain's crimson shirts overheard your furious rant, burst into laughter, and immediately echoed your indignation.
"¡Vamos, España!"
"¡Vamos!" you shouted back without hesitation, flashing them an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Ilia watched the entire exchange wearing an expression suspended somewhere between fascination and genuine alarm. He had never seen you watch a football match before, and he'd had absolutely no idea you became this emotionally invested.
It was his first football match too — or soccer, as he stubbornly continued calling it — and little by little the atmosphere inside the stadium was sweeping him away as well. He'd begun noticing that nearly everyone around you, whether draped in Argentina's sky blue or Spain's furious red, reacted with exactly the same unfiltered passion you did, as if tens of thousands of strangers had surrendered themselves to one shared heartbeat that rose and crashed with every touch of the ball.
During the halftime show, when Madonna, flanked by Ronaldo and Ronaldinho, emerged onto the pitch, which was hidden beneath a vast kaleidoscope-colored tarp, you grumbled under your breath about commercialism bleeding the soul out of football and about the pitiful attempt to turn the World Cup Final into some imitation of the Super Bowl, yet the moment BTS took the stage, followed by Shakira, a small, reluctant smile settled upon your lips and refused to leave.
You didn't even bother hiding it. Ilia, of course, noticed.
"That's a violation of Article 7, Section 2 of the Laws of the Game in the name of commercialism and show business," you declared with theatrical indignation. "The only person who could've officially signed off on this is that absolute idiot, Slavko Vinčić, and I seriously doubt he did. The guy can barely figure out how to use a can of referee spray."
Ilia knew better. The brief Coldplay and BTS performance had captivated you every bit as much as it had captivated him. Before the players returned to the pitch, you caught yourself quietly humming Dai Dai beneath your breath.
As the second half crept toward its end, your heart began to wither beneath the unbearable weight of anticipation. You were frustrated, terrified, just like every one of your fellow Spaniards scattered across MetLife Stadium.
Even the second beer — one you'd sent Ilia to fetch around the sixtieth minute because he was the dictionary definition of a simp, despite refusing to admit it aloud — did nothing to steady your nerves. Argentina had all but vanished offensively, yet somehow they still refused to concede.
Extra time loomed closer with every passing second. Spain were undeniably the better side, but if the match reached penalties, everything would be surrendered to chance. A penalty shootout was little more than a cruel lottery, one that rarely reflected the story ninety — or even one hundred and twenty — minutes had written.
In the third minute of stoppage time, Enzo Fernández brought Cubarsí down with a reckless challenge. Marc hit the ground like a discarded rag doll, his lip splitting open on impact. The referee had no choice. The yellow card came out. His second.
Which meant he was off.
"So... two yellows equal a red?" Ilia asked, blinking in surprise. "I always thought refs just, um, y’know, pulled out the red straight away."
"You've still got a lot to learn," you replied without taking your eyes off the jumbotron. Argentina's players were shoving Spain's. For a brief moment, Cucurella covered his mouth with his hand. "What the hell is that?" you burst out, crushing your empty beer cup in your fist. "¡Messi fue a chivarse con el árbitro! ¡Qué patético! Jesus Christ, what is this, kindergarten? Stupid rata."
Ilia tried to calm you down, but it was hopeless. You were standing on the razor's edge of an emotional detonation. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, every ounce of anxiety dissolved into pure, incandescent euphoria.
The 105th minute — Ferran Torres. He met the ball with the inside of his foot and lifted it beneath the crossbar after a sublime assist from Nico Williams. Goal.
You shot to your feet so violently your seat nearly folded beneath you, bouncing up and down, arms flailing wildly through the air as you bitterly regretted not bringing a Spanish scarf to wave above your head.
The tidal wave of joy crashed over you with such force that you completely forgot to watch where you were stepping. Your foot slipped and you tumbled an entire row down the stands. Ilia barely managed to grab hold of you and haul you back into your seat before you disappeared any farther.
"Yooo, bro, you okay?" he asked, his worried gaze sweeping frantically across your face.
You laughed breathlessly, wiping away the tears of pure happiness.
"Yeah. I'm okay," you assured him before leaning over to press a quick kiss against his flushed cheek. "I used to fall off my seat at the Bernabéu all the time."
When the match finally reached its end and the shrill blast of the referee's whistle echoed through the stadium, instantly swallowed by the deafening roar of tens of thousands of jubilant Spanish supporters, you cried without restraint, mascara streaking beneath your eyes in dark rivers.
You weren't even embarrassed. After all, it wasn't every day your country became world champions. You were almost as happy as you'd been when Ilia had won Olympic gold in the team event and later stood atop the podium once again in Prague.
Football was football. But your boyfriend becoming the best in the world? That wasn't exactly an everyday miracle either.
Even Ilia found himself swept away by your contagious ecstasy. He bounced awkwardly in place, mimicking the celebrations of the fans around him, enthusiastically chanting ¡Campeones! along with the Spanish section despite mangling the pronunciation beyond recognition.
Naturally, the evening wasn't spared its share of ugly scenes. Paredes, incandescent with bitterness after the defeat, lashed out at Spain's substitutes, shoving them in a fit of childish frustration.mIt saddened you that Ilia's very first football match had also been his first glimpse of such spectacularly unsportsmanlike behavior. When he'd finished eighth in Milan, the very first thing he'd done was congratulate Shaidorov.
Not everyone, it seemed, possessed that kind of grace.
As the players stepped forward one by one to receive congratulations from King Felipe VI, while the president of the US and Infantino — two men you despised and would've greatly preferred not to see anywhere near the ceremony — placed medals around their necks, you tried to record everything on your phone so you could send the video to your father, but your hands were trembling too violently with emotion for the footage to resemble anything but an earthquake.
You handed the phone to Ilia instead. He was more than happy to oblige. Every single time your lock screen lit up, however, he couldn't stop smiling. It was a polaroid scan of him, the photo was taken by his stylist only a few days earlier while he'd been posing in his outfit for the Cero Magazine event.
The first time you'd seen that picture, you'd solemnly informed him it deserved to hang in the Louvre. You had never seen him blush quite so fiercely. You were fairly certain you'd inflated his ego that had already been generously nourished by countless edits of himself and an endless parade of thirst traps flooding TikTok.
When the entire squad and coaching staff assembled for the official team picture, you smiled so hard your cheeks began to ache. Then Rodri lifted the World Cup above his head. Gold confetti burst into the night like a second sunrise. Without saying a word, Ilia slipped his arms around you, pulling you into the warmth of his embrace as one hand gently cradled the back of your head.
"I'm so proud of you," he murmured into your messy hair.
You leaned back just enough to search his blue eyes, your brows lifting in bewilderment.
"What? Why? The players won, not me. All I did was yell at the ref and complain."
"Yeah," he replied with a crooked smile, "but... you know. Just... in general."
You let yourself remain in his embrace for a long while, content to disappear into the quiet sanctuary of his arms, until you gradually became aware of curious glances drifting your way from passing strangers.
You had never been particularly fond of couples who treated public spaces like private living rooms, constantly wrapped around each other in syrupy displays of affection, so with visible hesitance you finally eased yourself out of his embrace.
You were spending the night at Ilia's anyway. There would be plenty of late-night cuddling to make up for it — assuming little Mila allowed you to claim even a sliver of space in his bed. Unlike Mysti and Miu Miu, who often regarded Ilia with the dignified indifference only cats could master, Mila shadowed him everywhere, following him with unwavering devotion as though the world itself began and ended wherever he happened to be.
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Even after the trophy presentation had ended, the two of you lingered in the stands, watching Spain's players celebrate with their families and loved ones, while Ilia became utterly captivated by Lamine Yamal's little brother, who was, in his opinion, the cutest and funniest kid he'd ever seen.
Eventually, the show came to an end. The captain, the coaches, and the players took their bows and said goodbye to the fans. Outside the stadium, the two of you walked several paces apart so you wouldn't look too suspicious, and somewhere among the tide of departing spectators you spotted Dua Lipa with Callum Turner, while, on the way back to the parking lot, Beyoncé passed by surrounded by security.
You still hadn't quite grown accustomed to the fact that your boyfriend was famous. To the fact that Snoop Dogg had worn a shirt with Ilia's face on it during the Olympics. Sometimes you caught yourself wondering how footballers' partners managed to live with men who were recognized absolutely everywhere.
You found it stressful enough when people occasionally approached Ilia at SkateQuest asking for photos. The thought that someone might one day secretly film the two of you sharing an intimate moment and unleash it upon the merciless machinery of the internet terrified you.
You weren't ready for that, and you knew Ilia wasn't either. It had already been painful enough when he'd been forced to apologize to his ex-girlfriend because strangers kept flooding her social media with cruel comments simply for having dated him.
Eventually, the two of them had blocked each other across every platform just to put an end to the harassment.
You never wanted to experience that yourself. You didn't want thousands of strangers dissecting your photos and deciding whether you were worthy of dating the Quad God.
Once you climbed into the car and the adrenaline gradually began to settle, you found yourself scrolling through countless videos from Barcelona, Madrid, Málaga, and Seville that had already flooded the internet.
It was well past midnight in Spain. The entire country seemed to have poured into the streets. Bars overflowed, nightclubs pulsed with music, fan zones erupted into songs, public squares disappeared beneath seas of red and gold. Your parents sent you photos from Plaza de Cibeles, where they'd gone with your grandparents and cousins to celebrate alongside the rest of Madrid. You already knew almost no one in Spain would be sleeping until dawn.
The images struck you with a longing so sudden it stole your breath. For one impossible moment, all you wanted was to be home. The guilt followed almost immediately. It wasn't fair to Ilia. He had taken you to the World Cup Final, fulfilled one of your greatest dreams, and here you were... sad.
You tried to smooth the emotion from your face before he noticed, but you failed. He always noticed.
"So..." he said quietly after a while. "What do you wanna do?"
You looked over at him, puzzled.
"What do you mean?"
"Your national team just won, right?" He smiled softly. "Feels kinda, I dunno, wrong not to celebrate."
"I'm not sad," you insisted a little too quickly, unwilling to sound ungrateful. "I got to watch the final live. That's already... more than enough."
"I know." He nodded. "But..." His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. "Okay, what would you be doing if you were in Madrid right now?"
You fell silent, disappearing into your thoughts.
"Hmm..." A wistful smile found its way onto your lips. "I'd probably head into the city for tapas and sangria, find some little bar with good music, maybe eat paella, and then end the night dancing to J Balvin or Bad Bunny." You laughed quietly to yourself. "Or I'd just go to Cibeles with my parents. That's where the national team and Real Madrid always celebrate their trophies. The players ride around the fountain on the team bus, and the captain wraps a scarf around the statue of Cybele." You sounded almost homesick as you spoke.
"Okaaay..." Ilia drew the word out thoughtfully before snapping his fingers. "Bad Bunny it is." To your delight, one of his notoriously chaotic rap playlists disappeared, replaced by DtMF. You smiled at him in silent gratitude. "We can stay here a little longer and find a club," he suggested with wide grin. "Or we could go grocery shopping so you can make paella and we can drink sangria. I've always wanted to try both."
"You don't have to do that, Ilia," you assured him gently. "We can just go home, play Fortnite and get some sleep."
"But I want to."
That's why you loved Ilia so deeply: because he was so unfailingly considerate of everyone around him. People often mistook him for someone selfish, self-absorbed, or hopelessly full of himself, but that simply wasn't true — or at least, it had never been true with you, although, like everyone else, he had bad days when he became snappish and short-tempered, though it wasn't as if you yourself didn't spend half your life complaining about one thing or another.
You had met Ilia shortly after arriving in Virginia, at the very beginning of 2025, and almost immediately he had taken care of you, something for which you would always remain profoundly grateful.
You had been terrified to your very core. A foreign country. A language that wasn't your own. Unfamiliar faces, different customs, a completely different rhythm of life. Although your roommate had been kind to you, your lab supervisor had welcomed you warmly, and the other graduate students and newly minted PhD researchers had practically adopted you, promising to teach you everything you needed to know, you still cried into your pillow every single night during those first few days, aching with homesickness.
You couldn't shake the feeling that you didn't belong here, that you were trespassing in someone else's life. The American healthcare system frightened you, especially the knowledge that a single ambulance ride to the hospital could cost you thousands of dollars. You couldn't understand why nobody separated their rubbish. The streets, deserted after sunset, unsettled you when, back in Spain, entire cities only seemed to awaken after eight in the evening. You found it unnerving that waiters casually walked away with your credit card to process your payment themselves. You distrusted almost everything sold in grocery stores, checking every ingredient through an app because so many products contained additives considered carcinogenic elsewhere.
Even the cars intimidated you. They seemed absurdly enormous. Back in Europe you had rarely seen vehicles like that. Here they were everywhere, and looming quietly in the back of your mind was the driving exam you would eventually have to take, knowing your international licence would only remain valid for six months.
You were hopeless.
Then one afternoon, while standing in the middle of a Walmart aisle trying to decipher the ingredient list on a container of tuna sandwich spread — determined to make sure it contained nothing remotely questionable — you spotted a smiling blond guy who looked approachable enough and gathered every ounce of courage you possessed before asking if he could explain, in simpler words, what ground mustard seed and xanthan gum actually were.
At first, he muttered something beneath his breath without even looking at you, immediately destroying the favorable first impression he'd accidentally made, but after a moment's hesitation he reluctantly took the container from your hands and began reading through the ingredients one by one.
"I'm kinda in a rush," he mumbled, shooting you a sideways glance as he slowly rotated the container between his fingers. "Can't you just use, like, Google Translate or something?"
He came across as kind of rude. You chose not to mention it. Maybe he'd simply had a bad day.
"I could," you admitted softly, struggling to keep your voice from trembling, "but I'm trying to actually talk to real people instead of my phone and to get over my... um... timidez… uh, I don't know what the noun form of being shy is…sorry."
That was the first time he truly looked at you. And then he froze. As though heaven itself had struck him with sudden revelation. He would later confess that it had felt like love at first sight.
The truth was, the same had happened to you. The moment you looked into those impossibly blue eyes and took in the delicate softness of his features, something inside you surrendered without a fight.
"Yeah... right." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking embarrassingly flustered. "Um... honestly, I have no idea what any of this stuff is." He gave a sheepish laugh. "My mom does all the cooking, so..."
"Oh." You smiled despite yourself. "Qué pena. I mean... that's a shame. Sorry, I keep mixing Spanish with English." A small, embarrassed pause. "Actually... more often than sometimes."
And that was how you met Ilia. He was your first friend in America, your first real crush, your first kiss, your first boyfriend, the first person you ever made love with, and the first before whom you allowed yourself to be utterly vulnerable.
He had never mocked your accent, nor the way your words caught in your throat during those first uncertain weeks in Virginia, when the weight of unfamiliar language tangled your tongue and, out of instinct, Spanish slipped into every other sentence like a homesick refrain.
He had never minded that, when you stayed over at his place, by the time he was already climbing into bed at ten or eleven each night, you were still clattering around his kitchen, fixing yourself dinner; if anything, he had warned his parents in advance not to scold you for eating so late, gently explaining that it was simply what you had always known.
He had never complained that you spoke too loudly. He understood it was woven into the fabric of who you were, into the warmth and unabashed spirit of Spaniards themselves.
He hadn't laughed when, cheeks burning with embarrassment, you shyly asked him to teach you how to kiss properly, how to make out, or how to suck him off without feeling awkward and afraid. And when the night finally came that you entrusted him with your virginity, he held your hand the entire time, infinitely patient, infinitely gentle, taking every care not to hurt you more than he had to.
He was the first person whose mere presence could fill you with happiness, as if simply existing beside you was enough to quiet every storm that had ever lived inside your heart.
Even now, sometimes, you still couldn't quite believe how lucky you had been. Barely a year and a half earlier, you had been convinced you were a lost cause. You didn't particularly like yourself, and you couldn't imagine ever meeting someone you genuinely loved who, impossibly, loved you just as fiercely in return.
Until then, every boy you'd ever known had remained exactly that — a friend. Nothing more. At first, you hadn't thought there was anything wrong with that. Back in high school you hadn't cared much about dating, you'd been too busy studying.
But once university began and you watched every one of your closest friends drift into serious relationships while you'd never even been kissed, doubt quietly settled inside your chest. You became convinced that your impossibly high standards, your complete inability to feel attracted to anyone who wasn't somehow reminiscent of Anakin Skywalker or Bucky Barnes, and your hopelessly unrealistic idea of love — carefully stitched together by every early-2000s romantic comedy you'd ever watched — had condemned you to spend the rest of your life alone. Even your mother used to tell you stories like the ones in films simply didn't happen in real life and no one will treat you like a princess.
Maybe a conversation about tuna sandwich spread wasn't exactly the kind of grand romantic beginning those films would've chosen, but despite your faltering faith, you found your love anyway.
From the outside, it probably looked complicated. Ilia spent endless hours at the rink, and during the competitive season he was constantly flying from one country to another, leaving you behind more often than either of you would've liked. To you, though, it had always felt astonishingly simple.
Or at least it was supposed to remain simple for a little while longer. In August, your placement at the laboratory would come to an end. You would leave Virginia and return to Madrid.
And Ilia would remain on the opposite side of the Atlantic.
You already knew that when the moment finally came to say goodbye, something inside you would split cleanly in two, but today, Spain had become world champions, and you refused to let tomorrow's sorrow steal even a fragment of today's happiness.
That grief could wait — at least until you were lying awake in bed, overwhelmed by your own thoughts, staring into the darkness and waiting for sleep to show you mercy.
After you'd sung along (loudly and unapologetically) to nearly every song on Bad Bunny's album, the two of you pulled into a 7-Eleven to fill up the tank and grab a few groceries. You were both far too lazy for a proper shopping trip, and you had neither the patience to spend the evening making paella nor your mother's effortless talent for it, so in the end you settled for tortilla chips, gummy worms, nachos, a bottle of Californian red wine, and, for Ilia, dino chicken nuggets and Coke Zero. You already knew he didn't like drinking alcohol, and you were almost certain his grand declaration that he'd keep you company with the wine would end exactly the way it always did — with him grimacing after the first glass before quietly surrendering.
You decided to take advantage of the fact that you were miles away from home, that Ilia's Honda had heavily tinted rear windows, and that the parking lot lay almost entirely deserted. Finding even a moment alone had always been difficult for the two of you; your roommate studied online and was almost always home, while the mere possibility that Ilia's parents — or Liza — might overhear the two of you in his bedroom filled you both with unbearable embarrassment, so you learned to seize whatever scraps of privacy fate happened to offer, no matter how unconventional the place happened to be.
As you'd promised Ilia, you eagerly blew him in the back seat, urging him to stop being such a gentleman and come in your mouth. He found your boldness incredibly hot, and the moment his breathing steadied and the stars stopped dancing behind his eyes, he kissed the small, remaining droplets of his release from the corner of your mouths, settled you comfortably against the seat and slipped a hand between your thighs. As he fingered you, he held your gaze, praising you softly in Russian, just the way you liked it. The only sounds filling the quiet car were squelches and your whimpers. When it was over, Ilia casually wiped his fingers on the fabric of what you considered that hideous T-shirt with the giant, green FIFA World Cup logo before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your sweaty forehead.
"So?" he asked in a deep voice, searching your face. "Was it good?"
He always asked. He needed to know you'd enjoyed yourself, needed the reassurance that he hadn't disappointed you, that there was nothing to complain about when it came to your sex life. Failing to satisfy you would have felt like his greatest personal defeat. He was just as ambitious and determined off the ice as he was on it.
"Yeah," you whispered, still hazy from the pleasure he'd just given you. "But not as good as Ferran's goal."
He snorted, a grin tugging at the corner of his almost red lips.
"Well, yeah. Obviously. That goal was kind of an absolute masterclass."
You let out a quiet laugh, straightening up in your seat before wrapping your arms tightly around him. His hand drifted lazily across your back while you buried your face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne.
More than anything, you wanted to slip your index finger beneath his necklace, tug him closer by the chain, and draw his face to yours so you could kiss him until the sun dipped below the horizon and your lips were swollen and aching. You wanted to take his hat off, play gently with his hair, make him slowly peel your T-shirt and bra off your body, guide his mouth to your breasts so he could lavish them with unhurried, tender kisses and delicate flicks of his tongue, and then you desperately wanted to roll him onto his back and ride him, admiring him from above. You loved the way he writhed beneath you, the way he panted heavily, and the way he caught his gold chain between his teeth. It was the most beautiful sight you had ever seen.
The two of you were far too exhausted to give in to those desires, though, and with a three-hour drive home still ahead of you, you reluctantly climbed back into the front seats and set off on the journey back.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
When you finally pulled into Tatiana and Roman's driveway, the very first thing the two of you did was take a shower, washing away the sweat, the dust, and the lingering scent of the stadium before changing into comfortable clothes. You slipped into one of Ilia's oversized T-shirts with Toothless printed across the front, while, much to your quiet satisfaction, he put on the Spain jersey you'd bought for him.
Over the dinner Tatiana had prepared, the two of you recounted the day's adventures, though Roman, more than anyone else, seemed eager to hear what Ilia had thought of his very first football match.
"Too bad you didn't get smacked in the face with the ball," Liza muttered sourly, still bitter that you'd gone on the trip without her, before scooping Mysti into her arms and disappearing upstairs with a theatrical pout. You made a mental note to spend some time with her tomorrow and watch a few episodes of Jurassic World: Camp Cretaceous together.
"I'm glad you both had fun," Mrs. Malinina said while you stood beside her at the sink, helping wash the dishes. "I hope my son took good care of you."
"He did," you answered with a smile.
After dinner, you and Ilia retreated to his room, where Mila immediately welcomed you, having apparently claimed his pillow as her throne while Ilia was gone. Miu Miu, meanwhile, lounged atop the cat tree and greeted her owner's return with one long, lazy meow that sounded suspiciously like commentary rather than affection.
You settled together on Ilia's bed and called your parents on FaceTime, only to discover they were still out celebrating Spain's victory, delightfully drunk somewhere in the heart of Madrid. Ilia remained adorably intimidated by them, mostly because their English was shaky at best, but somehow he always managed to navigate the language barrier anyway, smiling politely at nearly everything your father said, whether he understood it or not.
Exactly as you'd predicted, you ended up drinking the entire bottle of wine yourself. It wasn't as good as sangria, but you still enjoyed it. It reminded you of two years ago, when you got drunk with your friend while celebrating La Furia Roja winning the European Championship.
The sheer avalanche of emotions had wrung every last ounce of strength from your body, leaving you desperate for nothing more than quiet, and besides, there wasn't anywhere nearby where the two of you could disappear for loud music and dancing. Ilia, on the other hand, wasn't tired in the slightest, so you insisted he boot up Geometry Dash and finally catch up with Jacob on Discord; lately, he'd been consumed either by skating or endless serious events in NYC, while Jacob had spent weeks away at skating camp in Lake Placid, leaving them with almost no time for one of their gaming sessions.
Sleep claimed you quickly, softened by wine and emotional exhaustion, so deeply that you never even heard Ilia's loud, utterly unrestrained shrieks every time his cube smashed into another row of vicious spikes after failing the same level for what was probably the hundredth time.
You stirred only when he finally slipped beneath the duvet and wrapped an arm around your waist from behind. Yawning, you turned to face him. The room lay submerged in darkness, illuminated only by the faint ribbon of yellow LED lights running along the ceiling, bathing everything in a quiet, dreamlike glow.
"What's up?" you murmured drowsily. "Did you and Jacob end up playing FIFA?"
He laughed under his breath.
"Haha, naaah. I think I've had enough football for one day."
A sleepy smile curved your lips as you slowly forced your eyes open, only to feel something impossibly soft brush against your shoulder. You lifted yourself onto one elbow and looked down. Mila had squeezed herself neatly between the two of you, clearly jealous of the attention Ilia was giving you and determined to reclaim at least half of it for herself.
"I'm sorry we didn't celebrate the way you wanted to. We should've gone somewhere other than 7-Eleven or found a Spanish restaurant in New Jersey or something."
"Ils, it's okay," you cut him off. "I was way too tired for anything. I didn't think I would be, but I guess the excitement of actually being at the stadium just overwhelmed me. I got to see it all live, and none of my friends back in Madrid did... so I still won. By the way, thank you..." you whispered, your voice still thick with sleep. "For today. It... it really meant a lot to me."
"Of course." He shifted even closer and pressed a feather-soft kiss against your temple. "I love you."
"Love you too," you replied automatically, absentmindedly stroking the gray fur along Mila's back.
And just like that, everything you'd managed to outrun throughout the day came rushing back. All the worries, the fear, the grief waiting patiently beyond the celebration. The shadow of your return to Spain circled above you both like an approaching storm.
Ilia’s confession, gentle as it was, sent tears spilling into your eyes before you could stop them, and when they rolled silently down your warm cheeks, Ilia brushed them away with both thumbs as though they were something unbearably precious.
He already knew. He didn't have to ask what had shattered your composure so suddenly. Your return to Madrid was drawing nearer with every passing day, and he knew the moment when he'd have to let you go was no longer some distant possibility waiting on the horizon — it was approaching with quiet, merciless certainty.
He also knew he would never convince you to stay forever. You missed your city and family, missed home far too fiercely to abandon all of it and build a life in Fairfax for love alone.
And yet love was a force astonishing enough to blur even the sharpest definitions of home. Because although your heart ached for Madrid, Ilia had become home, too.
The distance waiting between you would almost certainly break both your hearts, but neither of you had any intention of giving up on what you'd built together. You had promised each other that you'd find a way to meet as often as possible, to keep choosing each other despite oceans, time zones, airports, and impossibly busy schedules, though neither of you knew whether your love would prove strong enough to survive a distance so vast it seemed almost cruel.
Still, some things were always worth trying for. After all, if Spain had managed to overcome mighty France in the semifinal, why couldn't the two of you overcome fate?
Or perhaps it had all simply been too beautiful to last forever. Perhaps the time had finally come for the curtain to fall, for the final act to end, for the two of you to step forward beneath the lights, take your bow, and quietly say goodbye.
You didn't know. You hadn't the faintest idea what your future looked like or which way your story would go.
And so, with Mila purring softly between you and Ilia's heartbeat echoing steadily beneath your palm, you made yourself one silent promise: that you would stop worrying about things before they happened, cherish every single one of your remaining days in Virginia and bring home the best memories of the boy who had given you everything you'd ever dreamed of.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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"Alexandra Trusova at the 2022 Beijing Olympics lost because she wasn't artistic"
Actually, she lost because she fell on the triple axel (heavy on that one) and her quads weren't clean. It's been 4 years yet the number of people I still see till this day claiming that's why she didn't win drive me insane. Like get your facts straight people.
did you know that there's a tunnel under ocean boulevard
[prologue]
author's note: i haven't written in a long time. let me know if this is worth continuing. explicit content ahead. comments, reblogs, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.
word count: 3.9k
u.s. figure skating championships, 2026
“you’re sure you don’t want to come?” amber asked. “or i can stay with you, if you want.”
you shook your head. “thanks, but i’m sure. i’d rather have a quiet night rewatching some movie i’ve seen a thousand times.” you smiled and stretched across your hotel bed. “go have fun. you deserve it.”
she smiled. “alright, if you’re sure. but call me if you get bored or lonely, okay?”
“i promise,” you said, waving. as she opened the door to your shared room, you grinned. “hey, amber?”
she turned. “yeah?”
“we’re olympians.” she laughed as you shook your head. “sorry, i had to say it again. it still doesn’t feel real.”
she smiled softly. “it doesn’t feel real to me, either. not yet, anyway.”
you hesitated for a second then slid off the bed and ran over to hug her for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “sorry,” you said sheepishly as you pulled away.
“no,” she said sternly. “you don’t get to apologize for being happy.” she grasped your shoulders. “you just turned in a fantastic short program and great free skate. you’re the national silver medalist, and you’re going to have so much fun when you compete at the fucking olympics in a month.”
you grinned. “says my fellow olympian and the national champion of skating and pep talks.” she laughed and hugged you again. “oh, and hugs. and fun, unless i keep you here for the rest of the night.”
she squeezed you one last time. “if you’re asleep when i get back, i’ll try not to wake you.”
“i don’t know how i’m expected to get any sleep over the next month,” you said dryly, “but i suppose i should try.”
she laughed. “you do that. sleep is important.”
you waved as she headed out then flopped back down on your bed with a goofy grin. as of a few hours ago, you’re officially part of team usa. just because you’d dreamed of it as a little girl didn’t mean you’d thought it would ever actually happen. you pulled out your phone and scrolled through social media, still unable to believe the photos and headlines.
blade angels headed to milan. is the 24-year wait over? is gold in the cards for team usa?
suddenly, a knock sounded at your door. you frowned and stood up. “amber, did you forget your–” your eyes widened as you opened the door. “oh! hi, ilia.”
ilia smiled crookedly. “hi.” you stared at him for a moment before he cleared his throat. “uh, sorry for, you know, showing up unannounced, but amber said you were staying in?”
you fidgeted with the room service tag on the back of the door. “yeah, i am. i’m not exactly a fun time where karaoke is concerned. or any kind of going out, really.”
he laughed. “oh, come on. you’re fun.”
“unless your idea of a good time is rewatching a movie and going to bed early, which i doubt it is, i don’t think i’ll medal in fun,” you said dryly. “congratulations, by the way. you know, on winning. i think i said it earlier, but there were so many people around that it didn't really count.”
he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “thanks. you skated really well, by the way.” you could’ve sworn his cheeks turned slightly pink, but he cleared his throat before you could give the matter much thought. “also, i happen to consider rewatching movies and getting some well-earned beauty rest a very good time. why else would i make an appearance after every competition?”
“because you pity me and my lack of a social life?” you rolled your eyes teasingly. “alright, come on.”
he grinned as he followed you into your room, shutting the door carefully. “what’re we watching?”
you shrugged and sat on your bed, gesturing to your laptop. “pick whatever you want.” he whooped in delight and flopped down next to you, eagerly scrolling through the choices. you watched him, smiling softly.
you’d met ilia about seven years ago, but you’d really started talking to him right after the last olympic cycle. you’d spent a few months harboring a massive crush on him before he’d introduced you to his then-girlfriend. you’d handled it like the mature teenager you were and spent the night eating an entire pint of ice cream, binging a comfort show, and crying yourself to sleep. the next morning, you’d decided you were okay with just being his friend. now, you were over him, really. you loved being friends with ilia. he was an incredible skater, sure, but he was also a total dork. he refused to drink coffee or tea, hated waking up early, spammed you pictures of his cats, and always made you smile. he never forgot to wish you luck before you skated, and he cheered you up when programs didn’t go how you’d wanted. and now, he was spending his celebratory evening hanging out with you instead of going to karaoke with everyone else. again. friends did things like that all the time, didn’t they?
“how to train your dragon,” he said with relish, dragging you out of your thoughts. “it’s a cinematic masterpiece.”
you laughed. “okay.”
his eyes widened. “okay? what do you mean, okay?”
you poked him in the side, smirking playfully when he squirmed. “i mean, whatever you say. your animated dragon movie is a classic, but cinematic masterpiece might be taking it too far.”
he gasped dramatically. “you wound me.”
you laughed. “aren’t they making some olympics ad for you with toothless now?” you’d heard him talking about the possibility a few days ago.
his cheeks turned red. “uh, yeah, actually.”
you laughed and leaned against him, ignoring the way the contact made your heart skip a beat. “so, you’ll be petting a giant green mechanical arm that’ll become a cgi dragon.”
“shut up,” he groaned. “i love toothless.”
you raised your eyebrows and pointed to the toothless shirt he was currently sporting. you were somewhat surprised that he had decided to pair it with snoopy pajama pants and minecraft socks instead of more how to train your dragon merch. “believe me, i am well aware. besides, most of your tossies are toothless.”
he turned to you, fighting a smile. “i actually brought one of them with me. he’s huge, so he’s great to sleep on during flights.”
you snickered. “of course you did.”
he shrugged. “he’s cozier than your boyfriend ever was.” the mention of your now-ex-boyfriend made you scowl. ilia winced. “sorry. i shouldn’t have said that.”
“don’t be,” you said flatly. “it’s his own fault he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
his eyes widened as he sat bolt upright. “wait, what? i thought you said you broke up with him because long-distance wasn’t working!”
you groaned. “well, it wasn’t. in addition to refusing to let me sleep on him on the very rare occasion that we were on an airplane together, he always forgot to watch me skate, never called, said i spent more time with the rink than him, and refused to come to competitions. oh, except the one he spent hitting on isabeau, who is way out of his league.”
he didn’t say anything for a moment, so you glanced at him. to your surprise, he looked…sad? “you didn’t deserve to be treated like that,” he said quietly.
something warm and unfamiliar settled in your chest. you didn’t know what to say, so you smiled awkwardly. “well, he was also terrible in bed, so i actually pity the girl he cheated on me with.”
ilia laughed. “that’s not a surprise. you looked irritated the morning after the one competition he showed up to.”
you glared at the ceiling. “he didn’t believe in foreplay and couldn’t find anything. he never made me come.” your eyes widened as you realized what you’d said. you buried your face in a pillow as heat rushed to your cheeks. “oh my god. you didn’t hear that.”
you could hear him struggling to fight another laugh. “sounds like you dodged a bullet.”
you nodded as you slowly peeled the pillow off your face. “yep.”
he fidgeted next to you. “so, what, you’re going to the olympics hoping to pick up a very sexy local? i bet the bachelors of milan make great lasagna.”
you groaned. “no. i don’t even know what i’m looking for. i don’t want another asshole boyfriend, but i also don’t want to just hook up with some italian guy. that sounds like a pr crisis waiting to happen.” you frowned. “maybe i should find another athlete. it’d be a good way to relax or blow off steam, and i can probably trust him to keep his mouth shut. what happens in the village stays in the village, right?”
“yeah, whatever,” he said thinly. “can we watch the movie now?”
your face felt hot. “oh, yeah. sorry for rambling about my miserable sex life and my nonexistent love life.” you pressed play on your laptop and laid down near him, mentally congratulating yourself for making it awkward.
a few minutes into the movie, he slid his arm around you. you curled up against him, relieved that some of the tension was dissipating. you loved hanging out with him, and you didn’t want to screw up your friendship over a few stupid comments.
he tucked your head under his chin, and your heart skipped a beat. “your hair smells nice,” he said. “did you get a different shampoo?”
you smiled nervously and fidgeted with the hem of your oversized shirt, suddenly very aware that you were wearing your pajamas: an old band shirt and loose shorts that barely touched your midthigh. “yeah, tsa-approved green apple.”
he laughed quietly. you tried to turn your attention back to the movie, but you couldn’t focus. for some reason, talking about your unimpressive romantic history had made you antsy. it shouldn’t have mattered. you were way past mooning over him.
you convinced yourself to think about your recent skates instead, which brought a crease to your brow. your short program had been very good, even by your high standards. there were details to nitpick, of course, like your lutz edge, but you were generally pleased. your free skate, however, had been less than ideal. you had still managed to place second overall, but it was not nearly as clean as you would have liked.
ilia cleared his throat. “you know, if you think any louder, i might be able to hear you.”
you groaned. “sorry. even after a competition, i guess i still manage to overthink everything.” you fidgeted slightly. “i’m still thinking about the combo i barely landed. i still can’t figure out how that was an acceptable double axel. i definitely underroatated it.”
he smiled softly. “it’s okay. my last combo left something to be desired. but i meant what i said earlier. you skated well.”
you felt heat rush to your cheeks. “thanks.” you risked a glance at him, and he grinned when you looked away quickly.
he gently poked your side. “be honest. if i weren’t here, would you be trying to rewatch footage and nitpick?”
“no,” you said honestly. he raised his eyebrows, and you sighed. “amber made me promise not to before nationals even started. apparently, post-skate analysis makes me tense.”
he laughed. “of course she did.” he fidgeted suddenly. “you’re tense right now.”
you sighed again and stared at the laptop screen. “well, i only have a month to nitpick my lutz edge and try to fix the axel combo, and i’m sitting here watching how to train your dragon and hoping your jumping prowess rubs off on me instead of doing something productive.” you smiled thinly. “i’m also missing that hypothetical hockey player fuck buddy, so i guess i’m a little tense.”
ilia wrinkled his nose. “a hockey player? really?”
you frowned at him. “do you have something against hockey players? not that it matters, since you’re not the one getting dicked down in our hypothetical situation here.”
he shook his head too quickly. “no, it’s…it’s nothing. forget it.”
you rolled your eyes and sat up. “ilia, if you’re about to tell me all of the hockey players have chlamydia or something, that’s very relevant information.”
he hesitated for the briefest moment, his eyes still fixed on the laptop, before he paused the movie and met your eyes. you were startled by the intensity in his gaze. “let me get this straight. you’re looking for a fuck buddy during the olympics, preferably an athlete, who isn’t going to run his mouth? and this is all in the name of stress relief, blowing off steam, et cetera?”
you groaned and flopped down on the bed, smashing a pillow over your face. “god, don’t say it like that!” you expected him to make a joke, but he stayed quiet. you peeked out from behind the pillow cautiously.
he gently tugged the pillow away from your face. “i’ll do it.”
you sat bolt upright as butterflies stupidly exploded in your stomach. “what?” of all the things he could’ve possibly said, that was the last one you were expecting to hear. he wanted to be your fuck buddy? there were a million reasons why that was a terrible idea, chief among them the way his words had made heat pool between your thighs.
his cheeks turned red. “nope, never mind. forget i said anything.” he clicked play on the movie and started to turn away from you.
you slammed the laptop shut. “no, you don’t get to say that and just take it back.” a twinge of fear poked your heart. “wait, were you making fun of me?”
“no!” he looked offended by your suggestion.
you raised your eyebrows. “well, by all means, explain yourself.”
he groaned and picked at a loose thread on the bedspread. “i don’t know. it seemed like the obvious solution and a totally harmless proposition. you wouldn’t have to worry about me running my mouth or anything. we already know each other, so you’d get to skip the awkwardness of meeting someone and explaining what you want. we could just stay friends, but i’ll…help you out when you need it. if you need it. if you want.”
you swallowed hard and ignored the shiver threatening to race up your spine. “so, we’d be friends with benefits?”
he looked at you sheepishly. “i mean, yeah. i guess.”
you bit your lip. “obviously, we’d have to lay out some ground rules.”
his eyebrows shot up. he clearly hadn’t expected you to consider his offer, never mind take him up on it. “uh, yeah. right. ground rules.”
“rule one,” you said, “is this stays between us. no telling max or torgs or misha.”
“no telling amber or alysa or isabeau,” he countered. “agreed.”
“rule two: no kissing.”
he frowned. “you want to hook up, but you don’t want me to kiss you?”
for some stupid reason, heat rushed to your cheeks. “not on the lips!” you glared at the bedspread. “that’s romance territory. this isn’t romance.”
he sighed. “fine, no kissing on the lips, and no romance. but i can kiss you anywhere that isn’t your mouth?”
if your face was hot earlier, it was now contributing to glacial melting. “uh, yeah,” you said, trying desperately to force your voice to stay level. “sure. i mean, if you want.”
he smirked. “okay, what’s rule three?”
“no seeing other people?” you suggested. you winced. were you being too strict? “or, if you want to, at least tell me first so i don’t look like a total idiot?”
he nodded firmly. “no seeing other people. we’re exclusive.”
“and no staying the night,” you added. “it’s too mushy.”
he groaned. “we’ve fallen asleep watching movies together more times than i can count. what’s the difference?”
“there’s a huge difference,” you protested. “staying the night is, like, the gateway to cuddles and catching feelings!” you snickered. “besides, we’re always sharing rooms with other people. do you want amber to see your ass?”
he cringed. “uh, not particularly.” he sighed. “i don’t see why it can’t just be platonic like always, but if you really want me to not spend the night anymore, that’s fine.”
something about hearing him say that made you sad. you didn’t know why, because of course all of your time spent together was platonic. you were friends, and that wasn’t supposed to change. “no, you’re right. platonic sleepovers and cuddles, but no catching feelings.” you pursed your lips. “that won’t be hard.” because you’re over him.
he laughed. “ouch, okay.”
you force a laugh. “so, just keep it…fun and casual? i don’t know.” you bit your lip. “i don’t really do fun and casual.”
“hey,” he said, “i meant what i said earlier. you’re fun. i really do like hanging out with you. okay?”
you smiled softly and ignored the warm feeling filling your chest. “okay.”
ilia grinned. “great. anything else?”
you shook your head sheepishly. “i’m sure i’ll come up with something later?”
he smirked. “i’m sure you will.” he offered you his hand to shake; your mouth went dry when his skin touched yours. “okay, we have a deal.”
“yeah,” you said, very aware of how shaky your voice sounded.
“you know,” he said gently, “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”
you bit your lip. “no, i want to. i just…don’t really do things like this often. if ever.”
he smiled. “well, let’s fix that.” he slid his warm hand up your inner thigh and toyed with the hem of your shorts. “let me know if you want me to stop, okay?” you nodded, unsure if you could properly form words. all the technical talking had sucked some of the tension out of the room, but you were fighting the urge to clench your thighs together now.
you laid back against the pillows as he gently slid your shorts off. you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt as he crawled between your legs and started to nip and kiss your inner thighs. “uh, no marks where the costumes won’t cover,” you said suddenly. “i don’t want to explain a bunch of hickies.”
he smirked. “too bad. i’d enjoy watching you try.”
you glared at him. “you talk a lot for someone who’s supposed to be using his mouth for something else.”
he rolled his eyes. “god, bossy much?”
“well, if you would just–oh–oh–”
he cut you off by gently pressing his thumb to your clit through your underwear, which was embarrassingly damp. “hm? what was that?”
“oh, fuck off,” you whined.
he grinned at you cheekily and caught the waistband of your underwear in his teeth so he could pull them off you. you tried to roll your eyes, but you were so turned on it wasn’t very convincing. he snickered. “does sassing me get you off? that’s hot.”
whatever reply you were about to send his way vacated your brain when he hitched your thighs over his shoulders and ran his tongue over your clit. a whimper escaped your lips as you ran your fingers through his hair. “oh, fuck.”
he hummed in approval, sending waves of pleasure vibrating through your core. he slid his tongue through your folds, his nose nudging your clit as he moaned. “you taste so good.”
you didn’t have a word for what he was doing with his mouth. any coherent thoughts you may have had vanished, replaced with the desperate urge for more. as if he knew exactly what you wanted, ilia started tracing a pattern on your clit; you tugged on his hair and fought the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. heat began to build in your core as you realized that he was grinding against the mattress.
when he suddenly wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning. heat rushed to your face as you fumbled around with both hands for a pillow to clamp over your mouth. he pulled back for a moment, his eyes still fixed on your soaked pussy. “no need for that. everyone else went out.”
the sounds his mouth was making were obscene, and you hoped nobody came back early, because they would definitely be able to hear what was going on. he didn’t even wait for you to acknowledge what he’d said before he dove back in. you whimpered as he worked his tongue inside of you, curling it sinfully.
“fuck,” you whined. “ilia, i’m–ah! i’m gonna come.” he moaned loudly and worked faster. your legs shook as he held them over his shoulders, and you threw your head back when he sucked your clit into his mouth. you cried out as you finally fell apart, gushing all over his tongue. “fuck, fuck, fuck!”
you’re quite sure you saw stars on the hotel ceiling. nobody had ever made you feel like that before. you’d give him a five for goe.
he slowly ran his tongue through your folds a few more times, smirking when you trembled from the oversensitivity. eventually, he glanced up at you innocently. he looked obscene and beautiful with his hair all messy and your slick coating his nose, lips, and chin. the pupils of his eyes were blown so wide that you could barely see the cold blue of his irises. “was that good?”
you laughed softly, your thighs still shaking. “please don’t make me answer that.”
he grinned. “i’ll take that as a yes.” he swiped his fingers along his chin and licked them off. “you know, you look considerably less tense.”
you were too blissed out to deny it and instead looked up at him. “do you want me to, you know, help you out?”
his cheeks pinked. “uh, not necessary.”
“okay, that’s hot.” lingering sparks of arousal settled in your core as you sat up and stretched.
he shrugged and stood up. “what can i say? i like eating pussy.” he offered you his hand, and you took it without hesitating, though you were unsure where you were going. to your surprise, he led you to the bathroom. you leaned against him as he gently cleaned you up with a warm cloth, briefly closing your eyes. was all of this going to be a regular part of your competition schedule now? you’d like that.
once he’d straightened himself out, he led you back to the bed and helped you get dressed. you curled up at his side, feeling perfectly at ease.
suddenly, you realized that you were getting dangerously close to cuddles that didn't feel quite as platonic as usual. you sat up and forced a smile. “should we finish how to train your dragon?”
ilia nodded quickly. “uh, yeah.” he sat up and pressed play on the movie. you hesitated for a moment then leaned against him. he immediately put his arm around you, just like he’d done when you’d started the movie. “is this okay?”
something warm fizzled in your chest as you tucked your head under his chin. “yeah.”
this wouldn’t mess anything up. you could still be friends, even while hooking up and trying to win olympic gold. right?
did you know that there's a tunnel under ocean boulevard
[prologue]
author's note: i haven't written in a long time. let me know if this is worth continuing. explicit content ahead. comments, reblogs, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.
word count: 3.9k
u.s. figure skating championships, 2026
“you’re sure you don’t want to come?” amber asked. “or i can stay with you, if you want.”
you shook your head. “thanks, but i’m sure. i’d rather have a quiet night rewatching some movie i’ve seen a thousand times.” you smiled and stretched across your hotel bed. “go have fun. you deserve it.”
she smiled. “alright, if you’re sure. but call me if you get bored or lonely, okay?”
“i promise,” you said, waving. as she opened the door to your shared room, you grinned. “hey, amber?”
she turned. “yeah?”
“we’re olympians.” she laughed as you shook your head. “sorry, i had to say it again. it still doesn’t feel real.”
she smiled softly. “it doesn’t feel real to me, either. not yet, anyway.”
you hesitated for a second then slid off the bed and ran over to hug her for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “sorry,” you said sheepishly as you pulled away.
“no,” she said sternly. “you don’t get to apologize for being happy.” she grasped your shoulders. “you just turned in a fantastic short program and great free skate. you’re the national silver medalist, and you’re going to have so much fun when you compete at the fucking olympics in a month.”
you grinned. “says my fellow olympian and the national champion of skating and pep talks.” she laughed and hugged you again. “oh, and hugs. and fun, unless i keep you here for the rest of the night.”
she squeezed you one last time. “if you’re asleep when i get back, i’ll try not to wake you.”
“i don’t know how i’m expected to get any sleep over the next month,” you said dryly, “but i suppose i should try.”
she laughed. “you do that. sleep is important.”
you waved as she headed out then flopped back down on your bed with a goofy grin. as of a few hours ago, you’re officially part of team usa. just because you’d dreamed of it as a little girl didn’t mean you’d thought it would ever actually happen. you pulled out your phone and scrolled through social media, still unable to believe the photos and headlines.
blade angels headed to milan. is the 24-year wait over? is gold in the cards for team usa?
suddenly, a knock sounded at your door. you frowned and stood up. “amber, did you forget your–” your eyes widened as you opened the door. “oh! hi, ilia.”
ilia smiled crookedly. “hi.” you stared at him for a moment before he cleared his throat. “uh, sorry for, you know, showing up unannounced, but amber said you were staying in?”
you fidgeted with the room service tag on the back of the door. “yeah, i am. i’m not exactly a fun time where karaoke is concerned. or any kind of going out, really.”
he laughed. “oh, come on. you’re fun.”
“unless your idea of a good time is rewatching a movie and going to bed early, which i doubt it is, i don’t think i’ll medal in fun,” you said dryly. “congratulations, by the way. you know, on winning. i think i said it earlier, but there were so many people around that it didn't really count.”
he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “thanks. you skated really well, by the way.” you could’ve sworn his cheeks turned slightly pink, but he cleared his throat before you could give the matter much thought. “also, i happen to consider rewatching movies and getting some well-earned beauty rest a very good time. why else would i make an appearance after every competition?”
“because you pity me and my lack of a social life?” you rolled your eyes teasingly. “alright, come on.”
he grinned as he followed you into your room, shutting the door carefully. “what’re we watching?”
you shrugged and sat on your bed, gesturing to your laptop. “pick whatever you want.” he whooped in delight and flopped down next to you, eagerly scrolling through the choices. you watched him, smiling softly.
you’d met ilia about seven years ago, but you’d really started talking to him right after the last olympic cycle. you’d spent a few months harboring a massive crush on him before he’d introduced you to his then-girlfriend. you’d handled it like the mature teenager you were and spent the night eating an entire pint of ice cream, binging a comfort show, and crying yourself to sleep. the next morning, you’d decided you were okay with just being his friend. now, you were over him, really. you loved being friends with ilia. he was an incredible skater, sure, but he was also a total dork. he refused to drink coffee or tea, hated waking up early, spammed you pictures of his cats, and always made you smile. he never forgot to wish you luck before you skated, and he cheered you up when programs didn’t go how you’d wanted. and now, he was spending his celebratory evening hanging out with you instead of going to karaoke with everyone else. again. friends did things like that all the time, didn’t they?
“how to train your dragon,” he said with relish, dragging you out of your thoughts. “it’s a cinematic masterpiece.”
you laughed. “okay.”
his eyes widened. “okay? what do you mean, okay?”
you poked him in the side, smirking playfully when he squirmed. “i mean, whatever you say. your animated dragon movie is a classic, but cinematic masterpiece might be taking it too far.”
he gasped dramatically. “you wound me.”
you laughed. “aren’t they making some olympics ad for you with toothless now?” you’d heard him talking about the possibility a few days ago.
his cheeks turned red. “uh, yeah, actually.”
you laughed and leaned against him, ignoring the way the contact made your heart skip a beat. “so, you’ll be petting a giant green mechanical arm that’ll become a cgi dragon.”
“shut up,” he groaned. “i love toothless.”
you raised your eyebrows and pointed to the toothless shirt he was currently sporting. you were somewhat surprised that he had decided to pair it with snoopy pajama pants and minecraft socks instead of more how to train your dragon merch. “believe me, i am well aware. besides, most of your tossies are toothless.”
he turned to you, fighting a smile. “i actually brought one of them with me. he’s huge, so he’s great to sleep on during flights.”
you snickered. “of course you did.”
he shrugged. “he’s cozier than your boyfriend ever was.” the mention of your now-ex-boyfriend made you scowl. ilia winced. “sorry. i shouldn’t have said that.”
“don’t be,” you said flatly. “it’s his own fault he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
his eyes widened as he sat bolt upright. “wait, what? i thought you said you broke up with him because long-distance wasn’t working!”
you groaned. “well, it wasn’t. in addition to refusing to let me sleep on him on the very rare occasion that we were on an airplane together, he always forgot to watch me skate, never called, said i spent more time with the rink than him, and refused to come to competitions. oh, except the one he spent hitting on isabeau, who is way out of his league.”
he didn’t say anything for a moment, so you glanced at him. to your surprise, he looked…sad? “you didn’t deserve to be treated like that,” he said quietly.
something warm and unfamiliar settled in your chest. you didn’t know what to say, so you smiled awkwardly. “well, he was also terrible in bed, so i actually pity the girl he cheated on me with.”
ilia laughed. “that’s not a surprise. you looked irritated the morning after the one competition he showed up to.”
you glared at the ceiling. “he didn’t believe in foreplay and couldn’t find anything. he never made me come.” your eyes widened as you realized what you’d said. you buried your face in a pillow as heat rushed to your cheeks. “oh my god. you didn’t hear that.”
you could hear him struggling to fight another laugh. “sounds like you dodged a bullet.”
you nodded as you slowly peeled the pillow off your face. “yep.”
he fidgeted next to you. “so, what, you’re going to the olympics hoping to pick up a very sexy local? i bet the bachelors of milan make great lasagna.”
you groaned. “no. i don’t even know what i’m looking for. i don’t want another asshole boyfriend, but i also don’t want to just hook up with some italian guy. that sounds like a pr crisis waiting to happen.” you frowned. “maybe i should find another athlete. it’d be a good way to relax or blow off steam, and i can probably trust him to keep his mouth shut. what happens in the village stays in the village, right?”
“yeah, whatever,” he said thinly. “can we watch the movie now?”
your face felt hot. “oh, yeah. sorry for rambling about my miserable sex life and my nonexistent love life.” you pressed play on your laptop and laid down near him, mentally congratulating yourself for making it awkward.
a few minutes into the movie, he slid his arm around you. you curled up against him, relieved that some of the tension was dissipating. you loved hanging out with him, and you didn’t want to screw up your friendship over a few stupid comments.
he tucked your head under his chin, and your heart skipped a beat. “your hair smells nice,” he said. “did you get a different shampoo?”
you smiled nervously and fidgeted with the hem of your oversized shirt, suddenly very aware that you were wearing your pajamas: an old band shirt and loose shorts that barely touched your midthigh. “yeah, tsa-approved green apple.”
he laughed quietly. you tried to turn your attention back to the movie, but you couldn’t focus. for some reason, talking about your unimpressive romantic history had made you antsy. it shouldn’t have mattered. you were way past mooning over him.
you convinced yourself to think about your recent skates instead, which brought a crease to your brow. your short program had been very good, even by your high standards. there were details to nitpick, of course, like your lutz edge, but you were generally pleased. your free skate, however, had been less than ideal. you had still managed to place second overall, but it was not nearly as clean as you would have liked.
ilia cleared his throat. “you know, if you think any louder, i might be able to hear you.”
you groaned. “sorry. even after a competition, i guess i still manage to overthink everything.” you fidgeted slightly. “i’m still thinking about the combo i barely landed. i still can’t figure out how that was an acceptable double axel. i definitely underroatated it.”
he smiled softly. “it’s okay. my last combo left something to be desired. but i meant what i said earlier. you skated well.”
you felt heat rush to your cheeks. “thanks.” you risked a glance at him, and he grinned when you looked away quickly.
he gently poked your side. “be honest. if i weren’t here, would you be trying to rewatch footage and nitpick?”
“no,” you said honestly. he raised his eyebrows, and you sighed. “amber made me promise not to before nationals even started. apparently, post-skate analysis makes me tense.”
he laughed. “of course she did.” he fidgeted suddenly. “you’re tense right now.”
you sighed again and stared at the laptop screen. “well, i only have a month to nitpick my lutz edge and try to fix the axel combo, and i’m sitting here watching how to train your dragon and hoping your jumping prowess rubs off on me instead of doing something productive.” you smiled thinly. “i’m also missing that hypothetical hockey player fuck buddy, so i guess i’m a little tense.”
ilia wrinkled his nose. “a hockey player? really?”
you frowned at him. “do you have something against hockey players? not that it matters, since you’re not the one getting dicked down in our hypothetical situation here.”
he shook his head too quickly. “no, it’s…it’s nothing. forget it.”
you rolled your eyes and sat up. “ilia, if you’re about to tell me all of the hockey players have chlamydia or something, that’s very relevant information.”
he hesitated for the briefest moment, his eyes still fixed on the laptop, before he paused the movie and met your eyes. you were startled by the intensity in his gaze. “let me get this straight. you’re looking for a fuck buddy during the olympics, preferably an athlete, who isn’t going to run his mouth? and this is all in the name of stress relief, blowing off steam, et cetera?”
you groaned and flopped down on the bed, smashing a pillow over your face. “god, don’t say it like that!” you expected him to make a joke, but he stayed quiet. you peeked out from behind the pillow cautiously.
he gently tugged the pillow away from your face. “i’ll do it.”
you sat bolt upright as butterflies stupidly exploded in your stomach. “what?” of all the things he could’ve possibly said, that was the last one you were expecting to hear. he wanted to be your fuck buddy? there were a million reasons why that was a terrible idea, chief among them the way his words had made heat pool between your thighs.
his cheeks turned red. “nope, never mind. forget i said anything.” he clicked play on the movie and started to turn away from you.
you slammed the laptop shut. “no, you don’t get to say that and just take it back.” a twinge of fear poked your heart. “wait, were you making fun of me?”
“no!” he looked offended by your suggestion.
you raised your eyebrows. “well, by all means, explain yourself.”
he groaned and picked at a loose thread on the bedspread. “i don’t know. it seemed like the obvious solution and a totally harmless proposition. you wouldn’t have to worry about me running my mouth or anything. we already know each other, so you’d get to skip the awkwardness of meeting someone and explaining what you want. we could just stay friends, but i’ll…help you out when you need it. if you need it. if you want.”
you swallowed hard and ignored the shiver threatening to race up your spine. “so, we’d be friends with benefits?”
he looked at you sheepishly. “i mean, yeah. i guess.”
you bit your lip. “obviously, we’d have to lay out some ground rules.”
his eyebrows shot up. he clearly hadn’t expected you to consider his offer, never mind take him up on it. “uh, yeah. right. ground rules.”
“rule one,” you said, “is this stays between us. no telling max or torgs or misha.”
“no telling amber or alysa or isabeau,” he countered. “agreed.”
“rule two: no kissing.”
he frowned. “you want to hook up, but you don’t want me to kiss you?”
for some stupid reason, heat rushed to your cheeks. “not on the lips!” you glared at the bedspread. “that’s romance territory. this isn’t romance.”
he sighed. “fine, no kissing on the lips, and no romance. but i can kiss you anywhere that isn’t your mouth?”
if your face was hot earlier, it was now contributing to glacial melting. “uh, yeah,” you said, trying desperately to force your voice to stay level. “sure. i mean, if you want.”
he smirked. “okay, what’s rule three?”
“no seeing other people?” you suggested. you winced. were you being too strict? “or, if you want to, at least tell me first so i don’t look like a total idiot?”
he nodded firmly. “no seeing other people. we’re exclusive.”
“and no staying the night,” you added. “it’s too mushy.”
he groaned. “we’ve fallen asleep watching movies together more times than i can count. what’s the difference?”
“there’s a huge difference,” you protested. “staying the night is, like, the gateway to cuddles and catching feelings!” you snickered. “besides, we’re always sharing rooms with other people. do you want amber to see your ass?”
he cringed. “uh, not particularly.” he sighed. “i don’t see why it can’t just be platonic like always, but if you really want me to not spend the night anymore, that’s fine.”
something about hearing him say that made you sad. you didn’t know why, because of course all of your time spent together was platonic. you were friends, and that wasn’t supposed to change. “no, you’re right. platonic sleepovers and cuddles, but no catching feelings.” you pursed your lips. “that won’t be hard.” because you’re over him.
he laughed. “ouch, okay.”
you force a laugh. “so, just keep it…fun and casual? i don’t know.” you bit your lip. “i don’t really do fun and casual.”
“hey,” he said, “i meant what i said earlier. you’re fun. i really do like hanging out with you. okay?”
you smiled softly and ignored the warm feeling filling your chest. “okay.”
ilia grinned. “great. anything else?”
you shook your head sheepishly. “i’m sure i’ll come up with something later?”
he smirked. “i’m sure you will.” he offered you his hand to shake; your mouth went dry when his skin touched yours. “okay, we have a deal.”
“yeah,” you said, very aware of how shaky your voice sounded.
“you know,” he said gently, “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”
you bit your lip. “no, i want to. i just…don’t really do things like this often. if ever.”
he smiled. “well, let’s fix that.” he slid his warm hand up your inner thigh and toyed with the hem of your shorts. “let me know if you want me to stop, okay?” you nodded, unsure if you could properly form words. all the technical talking had sucked some of the tension out of the room, but you were fighting the urge to clench your thighs together now.
you laid back against the pillows as he gently slid your shorts off. you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt as he crawled between your legs and started to nip and kiss your inner thighs. “uh, no marks where the costumes won’t cover,” you said suddenly. “i don’t want to explain a bunch of hickies.”
he smirked. “too bad. i’d enjoy watching you try.”
you glared at him. “you talk a lot for someone who’s supposed to be using his mouth for something else.”
he rolled his eyes. “god, bossy much?”
“well, if you would just–oh–oh–”
he cut you off by gently pressing his thumb to your clit through your underwear, which was embarrassingly damp. “hm? what was that?”
“oh, fuck off,” you whined.
he grinned at you cheekily and caught the waistband of your underwear in his teeth so he could pull them off you. you tried to roll your eyes, but you were so turned on it wasn’t very convincing. he snickered. “does sassing me get you off? that’s hot.”
whatever reply you were about to send his way vacated your brain when he hitched your thighs over his shoulders and ran his tongue over your clit. a whimper escaped your lips as you ran your fingers through his hair. “oh, fuck.”
he hummed in approval, sending waves of pleasure vibrating through your core. he slid his tongue through your folds, his nose nudging your clit as he moaned. “you taste so good.”
you didn’t have a word for what he was doing with his mouth. any coherent thoughts you may have had vanished, replaced with the desperate urge for more. as if he knew exactly what you wanted, ilia started tracing a pattern on your clit; you tugged on his hair and fought the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. heat began to build in your core as you realized that he was grinding against the mattress.
when he suddenly wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning. heat rushed to your face as you fumbled around with both hands for a pillow to clamp over your mouth. he pulled back for a moment, his eyes still fixed on your soaked pussy. “no need for that. everyone else went out.”
the sounds his mouth was making were obscene, and you hoped nobody came back early, because they would definitely be able to hear what was going on. he didn’t even wait for you to acknowledge what he’d said before he dove back in. you whimpered as he worked his tongue inside of you, curling it sinfully.
“fuck,” you whined. “ilia, i’m–ah! i’m gonna come.” he moaned loudly and worked faster. your legs shook as he held them over his shoulders, and you threw your head back when he sucked your clit into his mouth. you cried out as you finally fell apart, gushing all over his tongue. “fuck, fuck, fuck!”
you’re quite sure you saw stars on the hotel ceiling. nobody had ever made you feel like that before. you’d give him a five for goe.
he slowly ran his tongue through your folds a few more times, smirking when you trembled from the oversensitivity. eventually, he glanced up at you innocently. he looked obscene and beautiful with his hair all messy and your slick coating his nose, lips, and chin. the pupils of his eyes were blown so wide that you could barely see the cold blue of his irises. “was that good?”
you laughed softly, your thighs still shaking. “please don’t make me answer that.”
he grinned. “i’ll take that as a yes.” he swiped his fingers along his chin and licked them off. “you know, you look considerably less tense.”
you were too blissed out to deny it and instead looked up at him. “do you want me to, you know, help you out?”
his cheeks pinked. “uh, not necessary.”
“okay, that’s hot.” lingering sparks of arousal settled in your core as you sat up and stretched.
he shrugged and stood up. “what can i say? i like eating pussy.” he offered you his hand, and you took it without hesitating, though you were unsure where you were going. to your surprise, he led you to the bathroom. you leaned against him as he gently cleaned you up with a warm cloth, briefly closing your eyes. was all of this going to be a regular part of your competition schedule now? you’d like that.
once he’d straightened himself out, he led you back to the bed and helped you get dressed. you curled up at his side, feeling perfectly at ease.
suddenly, you realized that you were getting dangerously close to cuddles that didn't feel quite as platonic as usual. you sat up and forced a smile. “should we finish how to train your dragon?”
ilia nodded quickly. “uh, yeah.” he sat up and pressed play on the movie. you hesitated for a moment then leaned against him. he immediately put his arm around you, just like he’d done when you’d started the movie. “is this okay?”
something warm fizzled in your chest as you tucked your head under his chin. “yeah.”
this wouldn’t mess anything up. you could still be friends, even while hooking up and trying to win olympic gold. right?
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summary: For as long as she can remember, it always started with him—the boy next door and her brother’s best friend. Over the years, an innocent childhood crush became a habit, a secret she got used to keeping to herself as she stayed stuck in the role of the nerdy little sister. Now that summer has arrived, things are finally beginning to melt under the heat—and it might just turn cruel.
word count: 9,1k
author’s note: enjoy.. ;) ! english is not my first language, so I hope you keep that in mind! any feedback, questions, writing tips, and criticism will be greatly appreciated! this chapter contains sexual content, MDNI
The sun is spilling through the room when the familiar noises wake you up.
It’s Dusty gnawing at the door of her cage, high squeaks piercing the quiet room. Ilia is laying on his stomach next to you, his cheek squished against the pillow, his arm stretched out like he's searching for you. You don't realize it for a couple of seconds, shifting next to him and closing your eyes in hopes that Dusty will grow silent soon enough, but then it hits you. Your eyes widen. It's way past dawn and Ilia is still in your room, twisted in your sheets, peacefully sleeping next to you.
"Ilia," you whisper, leaning down to gently shake him, but it doesn't work. You glance at Dusty, who has grown even noisier after seeing you wake up, eager to get your attention. Looking at the door like Jace is about to burst in at any second, you swallow, shaking Ilia with a little more force. "Dammit, wake up!"
His eyes flutter open, his eyebrows knitting in confusion and his mouth slightly agape as he squints up at you. There are faint creases on his cheek, his lips are slightly fuller, and his blonde hair is all messy. The sight is so beautiful that it makes your chest tighten.
"What's wrong?" he mumbles in a groggy voice, laying his head back on the pillow so softly that you can't even find it in yourself to scold him. His eyes snap shut tight again. "It's so early."
"You promised to go back to your room."
"But your bed is so comfy," he sighs, rolling over onto his back and rubbing his eyes. He looks up at you, realizing from your tone that it's serious. "Actually, I've always wanted to sleep in it. It's so soft and cozy. And the sheets smell so nice."
"It's not the sheets. It's the Victoria's Secret body mist."
"So it's you," he grins, sitting up as he extends his arms to trap you in a hug. You push him off with a smile, trying to maintain a strict expression.
"Go back to your room."
"It's a Sunday morning and Jace usually sleeps until, what, 1 p.m. or 2 p.m.?"
"It's not a risk I'm willing to take."
"Fine," he exhales, pursing his lips as he gets up. He glances at Dusty, who has grown quieter, her curious eyes fixed on the two of you. Her tiny hands are clutching the bars, her expression so innocent and sad that it softens you. You crouch down to finally take her out. "Aww, Dusty… Wait, don't let her out yet!"
His voice rises, but it's way too late. She's already out, your fingers dug into her soft fur as you gently scratch her. You turn toward him, a playful smile dancing on your lips as you pad over.
"Don't you wanna pet her?"
"Wasn't I supposed to leave?" he tries to joke.
You roll your eyes at his defensiveness. It's been years and he still isn't used to Dusty's company, which is a bit annoying. "Overcome your fear and hold her."
"I do not fear her," he insists, but the tone of his voice and the reluctant way he caresses her fur say the exact opposite. You nudge her into his hands and he almost drops her, his hands shaking. Surprisingly, Dusty doesn't try to wriggle free from his touch. "She feels so… warm."
"Isn't she cute?"
"Very much," he grins, cradling her in his arms like she's one of his cats. "Just like the owner."
Then, he proceeds to smack a loud kiss onto your cheek, the heat rushing to your face at the innocent affection. You make him let Dusty go, gently pushing him out of your room while promising him that you'll meet him down in the kitchen for breakfast.
As you start making your bed, you spot a crumpled tissue laying on the nightstand. A stupid smile plasters itself across your face as you recall the night before, a familiar, electric feeling settling deep in your stomach.
"Did you get back with your ex?"
"Ew, no."
"Then what has gotten you giggling like that?"
You squint at Allie, who is spinning in her chair, an almost stupid smile plastered on her face as she types out a response on her phone, her nails clinking against the screen. She’s never been much of a texter—especially not someone whose face lights up with every single notification—until recently. It makes you wonder if it has something to do with a boy, because in your experience, it always does.
"No one."
Her face suddenly turns serious, locking her phone as she straightens her spine. You don't press her, because you don't like it either when you're texting Ilia and others bring up your stupidly excited face. So far, only Ziggy and Cam know the truth, and you would've told Allie too if she didn't have a habit of speaking before thinking.
"Mhm, sure." You give her a teasing smile, your eyes snapping back to your phone as you feel her staring at you. A few seconds pass before she exhales, shaking her head. You stare up at her in confusion.
"Girl, fuck you," she rolls her eyes at you, taking you aback with her sudden outburst. "Acting like you've not been sneaking around with your brother's best friend."
"What the hell, Allie?!" You look around with a horrified expression, getting up from the floor and spinning her chair around so she's forced to face you. "Are you insane?"
"Me and the people on X, right?" She gives you an annoyed expression, referring to the discussion that's been going on Twitter for the last few days.
You hadn't intended it, but when you streamed on Twitch with Ilia, you ended up wearing that blue t-shirt that belonged to him. Never in a million years would you have expected the fans to dig up old pictures of him, realizing that the t-shirt you were wearing was the exact same as his. It was enough to spark a discussion, along with compilations of snippets from the stream where fans claimed it was a soft-launch. You'd be lying if you said the implications didn't flatter you.
"Oh wow, you don't even try to hide it anymore," she rolls her eyes once again, slapping your hand away when you try to tug on her braid. "Although I gotta say, I'm disappointed you didn't tell me sooner. You don't trust me?"
"Of course I do!"
"Then why didn't you tell me?!"
"Because you have a habit of speaking before thinking!" You slap a hand over her mouth, forcing her to shut up before the whole cafe hears about your secret affair. "Might as well take a mic and announce it publicly!"
She licks your palm. Your expression turns disgusted as you pull your hand away, quickly washing it under the tap water. Allie looks incredibly content with the outcome, her expression smug now that she has finally made you admit your secret out loud.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're gloating," you huff, wiping your wet hands on your apron. "It's your turn to spill."
"I'm not in love like you," she waves it off, trying to pass it off as something casual. But even if she insists otherwise, you know the look on her face and the change in her behavior. She's falling for someone.
It's 10 p.m. when Jace picks you up. It's raining nonstop as he drags your bike into the trunk, asking about Allie's absence. She had to leave fifteen minutes earlier to catch a ride from a friend, leaving Jace slightly disappointed that he didn't get a chance to flirt with one of your friends again.
It's evening when you get back home after going to the movies with Allie. You're not surprised to find Jace and his friends hanging out in the living room, Ilia having texted you prior that he would be coming over along with them. The table is cluttered with empty beer cans and snack packages, making you internally roll your eyes at their inability to clean up after themselves before they start playing.
Josh is the first one to notice you. He waves, a bright smile plastered on his face as he calls out your name. Out of all Jace's friends, he's your favorite.
Well, obviously after Ilia.
"Hey, everyone."
You smile at them, your eyes landing on Ilia just a fraction of a second longer than the others as his lips curl into a subtle smirk. Jace is too engrossed in the game to turn around and acknowledge you, playing Call of Duty on a television screen split into four squares. Ilia is the only one left out, harboring a dislike for the game just as you do.
"Ew," you can't help yourself, your face twisting into a disgusted expression. "Why do you all keep playing it? The latest versions suck."
"Says a girl who plays Valorant," Max chuckles, rolling his eyes. "You don't like it because it's harder."
You snort, a genuine laugh spilling out of your mouth, mirrored by the others—excluding Max himself.
"Bro, everyone who has played both games knows that COD is so much easier."
"Yeah! Like, in Valorant, you move a millimeter while shooting and your bullets end up in a different zip code," Josh chimes in, agreeing with his twin, Jack.
Jack glances at you from time to time with a weird expression you can't quite decipher. You refuse to look back at him, his comment from a month ago still leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.
Jace yells at the screen, entirely on your side. "Yeah, my sister would clear you out in COD and she has barely even played it, you stupid shit."
"I'd like to see her try," Max challenges.
"Yeah, no thanks," you snort at him.
You turn to head up the stairs, planning to feed Dusty before Cam and Ziggy call. Tonight, the chances are high that you can finally rank up, and excitement bubbles up in your chest at the mere possibility. You reach the top of the stairs, stopping briefly to reply to Allie, when you hear Jace's voice break through the noise of the game, the sharp edge of annoyance instantly clear.
"Did you just stare at my sister's ass?"
You freeze. Your eyes widen in pure panic as you immediately imagine Ilia's horrified expression. Your palms go slick and sweaty against your phone as you lock the screen, but it's not Ilia's voice that replies.
"What?" Jack snorts, a defensive chuckle escaping his throat. "No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did. Your eyes followed her all the way up the stairs. Don't bullshit me."
"You're delusional, bro."
"I recognize that dirty look on your face," Jace's voice rises, his tone dead serious now. "Don't you dare try anything with her."
"Does that threat only apply to me?" Jack shoots back.
"What?" Jace’s voice sounds genuinely confused.
You grip the wooden staircase railing, unlike your brother acutely aware of exactly what Jack could be hinting at.
"You're the one ogling my sister," Jace snaps.
"Am I?"
"Bro, shut the fuck up and just own it," Josh intervenes, and you can practically picture him forcefully nudging his twin in the shoulder to shut him down.
"It applies to everyone in this room," Jace’s voice drops, cold and severe, sending a chill straight down your spine. You don't even want to imagine the look on Ilia's face right now. "She's off-limits. End of discussion."
No one dares to say another word. You stand frozen at the top of the landing for a full minute, physically unable to walk away, almost as if you're waiting for them to bring you up again. But the living room quickly and awkwardly changes the topic back to the game.
A moment later, Ilia loudly excuses himself to get a glass of water. Peeking through the banister, you catch the tense line of his jaw as he walks past the living room toward the kitchen. He doesn't look up, completely missing you standing there.
And later that night, long after the guys have gone home and you're laying in bed texting him in the dark, neither of you mentions a single word about it.
When Ilia sets off on his family cruise vacation, he leaves his cats with you. Since Jace is allergic to them—in the literal sense, not just because he’s a dog person—you have no choice but to temporarily evict Dusty to another part of the house. Instead, you help Ilia drag his cat tree into your room, setting up pillows and blankets to make them feel at home.
"Miu Miu usually likes to wake me up pretty early, so keep her out of the room if she starts doing that," Ilia explains, cradling Mila, the newest member of his quadcat family, in his arms. She is basically attached to him. Jace joked that it only took Ilia getting three cats for him to finally end up with one that didn’t hate him. "Mysti won't bother you. This little one might try to cuddle up to you, though."
"I feel like she's gonna be very sad when you leave."
"Yeah, please don't remind me," he exhales, pressing soft kisses onto Mila's head as she purrs warmly against his chest.
You smile at the sight, your heart threatening to burst with adoration. "You know, someone else is going to miss you, too."
"Yeah, I know," he smiles, his eyes subtly darting toward Mysti, who is already perched high up on the cat tree, staring out the window. "Secretly, she loves to cuddle me."
You look at him with a disappointed, raised eyebrow. Confusion washes over his face for a few seconds before the realization hits him, a wide grin breaking across his lips.
"I'm gonna miss you, too."
He leans in, placing soft kisses on your cheeks just like he did with Mila. The door is shut tight, and both of you know Jace has absolutely no interest in watching Ilia's cats settle into your room. You don't shy away from his touch, instead slipping your fingertips into his hair when his lips finally slide over yours.
"Make sure to send me pictures from the cruise."
"Of course," he looks at you like it's not even up for discussion. "I'll bore you with them."
"And make sure to put on sunscreen."
"Yes, ma'am."
Then, he has to leave, and you are left in the quiet company of his cats. You leave your bedroom door cracked open so they can wander out if they get bored, but Mysti and Miu Miu stay put on the tree, both of them fast asleep. Mila settles directly onto your stomach, her tiny body warm against yours. A comfortable drowsiness washes over you, and eventually, you close your eyes, too.
Ilia celebrates the 4th of July on the cruise, while you celebrate with your family at your dad's friend's house, leaving the gathering early with the excuse that you don't want to leave the animals alone at home for too long. Dusty has made herself comfortable in Jace's room, but she offers you even less affection than she rarely does anyway, your brother constantly joking that she's mad at you.
A week passes in a blur, and before you know it, he is back. He surprises you, picking you up after a late-night shift at the cafe. His nose is a little sunburnt, but overall he has kept his promise; the golden tan compliments his skin, almost shimmering under the dim streetlights.
"You look so good."
"So do you."
"My hair is a mess and I stink of coffee and cinnamon."
"I do find the smell comforting," he mumbles into your neck, pulling you flush against him one more time. "I brought you a present."
"From the cruise?"
You raise an eyebrow, following him to the car. He holds the door open for you, signaling for you to climb in as he carries your bike to store it in the trunk. You settle into the passenger seat that has gradually become yours, fixing your hair in the mirror in an attempt to look better for him—despite him already seeing you, and despite knowing that he doesn't care about a messy hair.
By the time he gets into the driver's seat, you have already texted your father that you're grabbing burgers with Allie, indicating that you will be home later than you usually are. Ilia stretches his hand toward the backseat and pulls out a thick book, the Sudoku grid illustration on the cover making you chuckle.
"You mentioned that you completed the one your father brought you."
"I did," you smile at him, leaning over to smack a loud kiss on his cheek to show your gratitude. "Thank you."
"Although Liza was a little suspicious that I was getting you a gift," he raises an eyebrow, exhaling at his sister's behavior like she’s giving him a hard time. "She said, and I quote, that I was being 'unusually generous.'"
"But you've brought me gifts before."
"Yeah, but I might've gotten you another gift, too," he grins, his smile on full display as your stomach basically flips upside down. "I guess two gifts is a bit suspicious."
"Aren't you gonna show me?"
"Won't you thank me first?"
"I already thanked you," you raise an eyebrow, anticipating exactly where this is going. "Wasn't it sufficient?"
"No, the second gift requires more than a kiss on the cheek."
You huff, rolling your eyes, but you still lean in. You capture his lips with yours as you close your eyes, hearing him sigh in pure bliss. His fingertips slip into your hair, and before you know it, you find yourself leaning over the center console. His hands grip your hips as you settle into his lap, his fingertips tracing your bare legs.
"I told my dad I was staying out with Allie," you breathe out, sweeping your eyes over his face as a small smirk turns up his lips. "We don't have to go back yet."
"Good. I wasn't planning to."
He kisses you again, harder this time, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt as his tongue slides into your mouth. It's all too much and still not enough. You want nothing more than to let him peel your clothes away when he cups your breast through your thin bra, but you're in the car. Even though the street is dead quiet, thinking of doing anything more here is insane.
"Ilia," you pull back, your chest heaving up and down. His mouth is glistening as he furrows his eyebrows, sensing the slight panic in your voice. You lick your lips, swallowing hard so you can even out your breath.
"What is it?"
"What's my second present?"
He stares at you for a fraction of a second, and then his face breaks out into a wide smile. He rolls his eyes, not even slightly mad about the interruption. You climb off his lap and slide back into your own seat, turning your whole body toward him so you can just stare at him as he talks about whatever comes to mind, simply because you've missed him so much.
"A couple of days ago my manager called me," he starts explaining, licking his lips as he drags out the words, giving you the impression that he's trying to gauge your reaction to whatever he’s about to say. "You know, after the Olympics, I've been getting quite a lot of offers."
"You just had to quickly brag about it, huh?"
"Absolutely," he grins. "And this one might be the best one I have ever received."
"Is it a Dior partnership?" Your eyes practically sparkle with excitement, shifting in your seat so you can lean in closer to him. "Is it a Calvin Klein ad?"
He bursts out laughing, shaking his head like you've said something impossible. "I don't think anyone wants to see me in a Calvin Klein ad."
"I do."
"Well, we can arrange something. You don't need Calvin Klein for that."
"Okay, now spill," you tug at his arm, completely impatient for the news. "What is it?!"
"I got invited to a movie premiere."
"Oh! Which one?"
"Spider-Man."
He says it like he’s testing the waters. It takes you a couple of seconds to process, and then your eyes widen, your mouth left slightly agape as he chuckles at your reaction.
"Oh my god."
"Yeah."
"Oh my god, you're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," you laugh, unable to control your excitement. "That's insane."
"We're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," he corrects gently, the playful smile on his lips turning incredibly soft.
You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you stare at him.
"They said I can bring a plus-one," he says, his blue eyes holding yours with absolute certainty. "And of course I'm taking you with me."
For a moment, your heart beats so hard and fast it feels like it's bruising your ribs. A cold rush of panic and dizzying excitement sweeps through your veins, leaving your palms sweaty.
Sensing the silent shock taking over your body, Ilia reaches out and slides his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand tightly between his warm palms to ground you.
"Yeah," he whispers, his grin widening. "We're going to London."
"Shut up," you shake your head, tears instantly prickling the backs of your eyes. You squeeze your eyelids shut, refusing to let the words sink in because it feels like a dream you're about to wake up from. "No way. Ilia, don't joke."
"Yes way."
And then, even though you try not to, tears of pure excitement escape your eyes. He laughs softly, pulling you against his chest while you sob into his shirt, scolding him for making fun of you during a moment like this.
No one is surprised to learn that Ilia chose you to take to the premiere.
Jace is actually more excited about it than you are—having absolutely no clue what this three-day getaway in London could turn into behind his back.
In a week, you leave for London. Betty covers your shifts at the cafe without making a fuss, even though Allie is away on vacation, too. Jace is the one to drive you both to the airport, and he's the very first one to text you asking for updates every few hours.
You end up sharing a hotel room with Ilia, but even that doesn't come as a surprise to your brother. Jace instantly assumes that Ilia is the one sleeping on the couch. You silently agree with him, sharing a brief, knowing glance with Ilia as you both press your lips together to keep from laughing.
"It's so comfy," Ilia sighs, jumping onto the king-sized bed and burying his head in the pillows. He closes his eyes with a content groan. "Come here."
"Comfier than mine?"
"Come and find out."
The mattress dips beneath your weight as you climb onto it, settling next to him with a soft smile stretching across your face. He immediately slides his arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he drapes his leg over yours, anchoring you to him.
"What if we nap for a while?" he mumbles into your neck. "Then we can grab some breakfast and explore the city. Around evening, the stylists will come by so we can choose our looks, do the fittings, and get them tailored if needed."
"After ten hours of travel, of course I want to sleep."
"Good."
He nuzzles his head deeper into your shoulder, his arm locked securely around your waist as his fingers lace with yours. His breath falls softly against your skin. You close your eyes and finally let sleep take over—this time with no rush, no alarms, and not a single trace of worry in your bones.
People in London don't pay attention to you. In the busy crowd, you're able to hold his hand in public, kiss him on the streets, and just be together like you're meant to.
You end up choosing the black dress, the rhinestones adorning the structured corset sparkling under the lights. It matches his suit perfectly, and your breath hitches in your throat when you see him fully dressed for the first time.
Although it's not his first time walking a red carpet, he's not entirely used to the madness either. His palms are sweaty when he takes your hand and leads you toward the crowd. You're incredibly anxious, feeling so many eyes on you, feeling out of place in a glamorous lifestyle that everyone else seems to blend into so easily. But he squeezes your hand tightly and reassures you, his smile so comforting that it immediately eases your panic.
"And what if I kiss you right now?" he murmurs, his voice teasing, his eyes edged with a soft admiration as he gazes at you.
"Jace will gouge his eyes out when he sees the pictures."
"You're so beautiful, it's criminal not to do anything," he sighs, keeping his hand resting on your lower back. It's respectful and casual, but enough to show everyone that you've come together and you're with him. "I'm gonna backflip into misery."
You laugh, and then the photographers start shouting his name. You don't know which camera to look at, and for a whole thirty seconds you hold your breath and try to smile despite the panic fluttering inside, but his arm is secure around your waist and it's more than enough to ground you.
A sigh of relief leaves your lips when you finally walk into the lobby. It's free of flashing cameras and excited shouts, and people are already talking, sipping champagne as they chat away. Ilia is introduced to some people, and you stand beside him, awkwardly looking at them while they talk, occasionally answering whatever they happen to ask you too, though you don't have much to contribute to the conversation.
The spider-web-garnished cocktails catch your eye, and you instantly hurry over to try them, Ilia waiting to take a sip from your glass because he's convinced he won't like it.
"It's… decent," you try not to wince, offering him a sheepish smile as you hand it over. "It's sweet."
"Your face says otherwise."
"I fear they don't serve apple juice here, Ilyusha."
"Stop making fun of me," he nudges you with a teasing smile, leaning in close. He whispers something to you, and your eyes widen as you look in the direction he points—Tom and Zendaya are walking in.
"I'm gonna faint."
"Don't."
"I'm not leaving this theater until I get a photo with them."
"You will."
He reassures you, chuckling at your enthusiasm that almost resembles panic. You don't get a chance to talk to them right away, and by the time you get close enough, you have to head inside to watch the movie, your seat assigned right next to Ilia's. Throughout the whole movie your eyes are fixed on the screen, and he keeps looking over to make sure you're doing okay, happy just watching you have a great time.
Before you leave for the night, you excuse yourself to the restroom. You can't help but laugh at your reflection staring back at you from the mirror because you look almost ridiculous with the wide smile on your face. But because you aren't used to wearing high heels, your feet are slowly starting to give out. You wince as you slip one shoe off to fix a band-aid that already has a blood stain on it. You dig into your purse only to find it completely empty of what you need—your phone, a mini lipstick, and mascara are taking up all the space.
You groan, almost burying your face in your hands before remembering you can't ruin your makeup. "Oh, great!"
"Need some help?"
You freeze at the familiar voice. You look up with wide eyes to find Zendaya staring at you with a warm smile. The words die in your throat, your palms going sweaty as you nervously chuckle and mumble something almost too incoherent. She doesn't mind your awkwardness at all, offering you some band-aids and chatting away with you while she fixes her makeup in the mirror. Your heart is almost bursting out of your chest. She compliments your dress, and her warm, down-to-earth energy makes you feel instantly welcome.
When you finally step back out, Ilia is waiting.
"What took you so long?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern as he leads you out of the lobby so you can head back to the hotel to change for the afterparty.
You grin, clutching his arm tightly. "I just talked to Zendaya," you gush, your voice full of pure admiration. "And she told me my dress looks beautiful!"
"It's not the dress, it's you."
"That's not the point!"
He laughs, letting you tell him all about the restroom encounter for the entire ride back.
Once you're back in the quiet sanctuary of the hotel room, the transition is quick and intimate. He stands behind you, his warm hands helping you zip up the short, sleek dress you've chosen for the afterparty, and in return, you help him restyle his hair, running your fingers through the strands that have become messy from the London wind.
The afterparty is louder, warmer, and much more relaxed. The room is bathed in low lighting with a heavy bass vibrating through the floor. Without the cameras and the formality of the red carpet, everyone is just themselves, having fun.
You and Ilia slide into the crowd easily, and the highlight of the night comes when you run into Zendaya again near the lounge area—only this time, Tom is right there with her. She recognizes you and to your surprise both of them recognize Ilia, your boyfriend blushing when they highlight his talent. The four of you stand together for a few minutes, chatting casually about the movie and how much you're enjoying London, before you finally get the group photo you've been hoping for all night.
Once they wave goodbye and head back into the crowd, you stare at the picture on your phone in sheer disbelief, while Ilia just laughs, pulling you flush against his side with a quiet "told you so" smile.
It's midnight when you return to the hotel, both of you still giggling as you stumble into the dark room. Your feet are aching from wearing heels for the entire evening, forcing you to lean heavily against Ilia's arm as he leads you inside. Before he even flips the bedside lamp on, casting a soft, warm glow across the room, you have already kicked off your shoes. You pad across the carpet and sprawl across the bed, letting out a long sigh of relief.
"It was the best night of my life," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, still entirely starstruck as the memories rush through your mind. "It literally feels like a dream."
You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking over at Ilia. He is already unbuttoning his crisp white shirt, watching you with a soft, quiet smile that feels infinitely more intimate than anything on the red carpet. Sliding off the mattress, you reach behind your back to pull down your zipper, but your fingers are trembling too much to get a grip.
Suddenly, the brush of his warm fingertips against your exposed spine makes you freeze.
"Let me help you," he murmurs.
His voice is low in the stillness of the room as he steps up behind you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you stand perfectly still, silently letting him.
The metal teeth of the zipper glide down with a soft hiss. You let the fabric of the dress slowly slip from your torso. As the cool air of the hotel room hits your bare skin, a shiver runs down your spine—your chest tightening not just from the temperature, but from the sheer anticipation of what is about to happen. You swallow hard, your palms growing slick at your sides as you slowly turn around to face him.
His gaze sweeps over your body, slow and reverent, before finally settling on your eyes. The warmth of his hands as he reaches up to cup your cheeks is almost overwhelming.
"So beautiful," he whispers.
He leans in, softly pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so incredibly gentle that your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting slightly as he begins to pepper slow, warm kisses down your jawline and the sensitive column of your neck. His hands slide down to grip your hips, pulling you close enough to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
You let him guide you back toward the edge of the bed. Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, helping him ease it off his shoulders until it pool on the carpet beside your dress. He gently coaxes you down onto the mattress, hovering over you as you map the line of his bare chest, your fingers gripping his biceps when his hand slides slowly, deliberately between your thighs. A soft, breathless moan escapes your throat.
"Ilia," you whisper his name. It feels like a plea, a quiet prayer, as a sweet, familiar heat begins to bloom in your stomach, igniting your skin everywhere he touches. "I've never done this before."
He pauses, his fingers stilling against you. His chest heaves up and down, matching the shallow, uneven rhythm of your own breath. He looks down at you, searching your face, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. There is an intensity in his blue eyes, a sudden, protective softness that makes the breath catch in your throat.
"Do you want to?" he asks softly, giving you space, making sure you feel entirely safe.
You look up at him, feeling more exposed and entirely perceived than you ever have before. But looking at the tenderness in his face, the fear melts away, leaving only a certainty.
"Yes," you whisper, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. "With you."
A wide smile stretches across his face just before he leans in to kiss you again—much fiercer this time. He sweeps his tongue over yours, catching the breathless whimper that escapes your throat as his hands slide down your hips, hooking into the sides of your underwear and smoothing them down your legs. Your back arches against the mattress, your body reacting instantly to the direct, steady circle of his thumb. This time, you don't even try to hold back. You don’t smother the sounds or slap a hand over your mouth to hide them. Instead, you let him hear everything, shamelessly whispering his name against his lips as you wrap your bare legs tightly around his waist.
When the overwhelming peak finally washes over you, bringing tears of pure release to your eyes, he leans down to kiss them dry. He pulls back just enough to strip off his pants, and through your smudged mascara, you look up at him. Seeing his bare silhouette in the soft lamp light makes your chest tighten with a sudden ache. Biting your lower lip in quiet anticipation, you part your legs, welcoming him closer.
He settles between your thighs, tearing the small, square foil package open with his teeth. You watch him with quiet, curious eyes as he rolls on the condom. You swallow hard, trying to force your muscles to relax against the pillows, but your eyes drift to the ceiling as a sudden rush of nervous heat sets your veins on fire.
"Hey."
Sensing the sudden shift in your posture, Ilia gently traces his fingers along your jawline, coaxing your gaze back to his. His expression is calm and patient—a quiet anchor in the middle of all your thoughts.
"We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he promises softly. "It's okay."
"No, I am," you insist, shaking your head to clear the lingering doubt.
To prove it to him—and to yourself—you cup his face in your hands, pulling him down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Under the softness of his touch, any trace of anxiety washes away. You let him take a piece of you, giving yourself over to him completely. He is gentle with you, so careful and sweet, and it's everything you had ever wanted—everything you had spent years secretly dreaming of.
"So, does MJ get her memories back?"
"Do you want me to spoil the movie for you?" You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you look at Liza.
She is ecstatic to hear all about the premiere, making you recount every single detail over again even though you’ve already talked to her on the phone about it. Tatyana observes the scene with an amused expression, chopping chocolate for the cake Ilia has been requesting ever since before you two even got back. He is sitting at the table with you and Liza, but unlike you, he’s having a late breakfast after sleeping in, while you help his little sister bedazzle her figurines.
"I guess not," Liza says after a while, thoroughly contemplating the spoiler with a focused look on her face. "Was it better than No Way Home?"
"I mean... I was too excited when I watched it, so I don't think I can fairly criticize it without a rewatch."
"Fair enough."
"Aren't you guys gonna ask me for my opinion?" Ilia asks between bites, his voice muffled. All you can stare at is the smear of jam stuck to the corner of his lips. The sudden desire to reach over and wipe it clean off him—in a way that is not at all appropriate for the family kitchen—is almost ridiculous. "I was there too, you know."
"Do you even have enough vocabulary to analyze a movie?" Liza asks.
"Liza," Tatyana warns, shooting her a look to behave, even though she is desperately trying not to laugh. "What did we talk about?"
"Sure, Mom. I won't make fun of your loser son."
"This 'loser' attended a major movie premiere and you didn't," Ilia points out.
"Wait till I grow up," she bites back, an annoyed expression plastered on her face as she glares at her brother.
"I don't know what I did to deserve such a bratty attitude."
"It's a universal experience," you jump in, less to defend Liza and more to tease him. "Jace goes through the same thing every day. It's kind of like our job."
"I don't remember you being this mean when you were twelve."
"Well, I wasn't mean to you."
"Wonder why," Tatyana notes, amusement dripping from her voice.
You groan at her comment, burying your face in your hands in sheer embarrassment because you know exactly where this is going.
"I remember once you asked me what Ilia's favorite color was," Tanya continues, highly pleased with herself. "And then you made your dad buy you a dress in that exact color for the first day back to school. I think it was your second or third year?"
"Tanya, please stop."
Ilia is the only one laughing, a smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes lock onto yours. Liza rolls her eyes as if the story has personally offended her, huffing when she accidentally picks up the wrong color rhinestone.
You help Tanya decorate the cake while Ilia watches in silence, cradling Mila in his arms. Later, Jace comes over because it's a sweet occasion his appetite can't possibly miss. Once Tanya and Liza leave for practice, you’re stuck with the boys, finishing up the bedazzled F1 car figure Liza left for you to complete, trusting you with the fine details she doesn't quite trust herself with yet.
"Dude, did you see Jake Gyllenhaal?" Jace asks.
"Nope, he wasn't there."
"Aw, man. That's a shame," Jace sighs in disappointment, drumming his fingertips against the wooden table. "How was London, anyway? I didn't have time to properly chat with you two."
"Yeah, everything was great," you reply, keeping your eyes fixed on the tiny Ferrari logo. "Except the English breakfast, of course."
"I dunno, I liked it," Ilia shrugs.
"Well, you only ate the bacon, eggs, and tomatoes, Ilia."
"Did he keep you awake?"
Your head snaps up, glaring at Jace with a confused expression as a sudden jolt of panic surges through you. You don't dare look at Ilia, but you see his fork freeze halfway to his mouth. Jace notices your raised eyebrows and quickly offers a cover-up.
"Sometimes he snores so loudly."
"Literally, you're the one who snores," Ilia huffs, recovering quickly. "It's definitely not me."
"No, he doesn't snore," you agree, keeping your voice carefully casual. "I fear that's you, Jace."
"Well, then I don't see any other reason why you wouldn't enjoy the trip."
"Yep. I enjoyed everything... a lot."
To get a reaction out of him, you put a deliberate, slow emphasis on the last words, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. Only you and he know the heavy implication behind them. But his timing is horrible. Just as the words leave your mouth, he takes a sip of his juice and immediately chokes. His eyes widen, a fit of coughing overtaking him as Jace cluelessly pats him on the back, completely oblivious to what actually provoked the reaction.
Jace is about to say something, but his phone buzzes, and he’s immediately on his feet to take the call in the other room.
The moment the kitchen door swings shut, you let out a laugh. You reach across the table to fix his hair, offering him a playful, apologetic stroke of your fingers.
"You're cruel," he mutters.
"I'm sorry," you giggle, leaning in to press a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek. "You should've seen your face. Thank god Jace wasn't looking at you."
"You know, I was thinking about it..." he starts, his expression turning serious, careful, as if he's trying to gauge your reaction. "I think it's time to tell him."
You don't reply immediately, a sudden wave of anxiety washing over you at the thought of what's to come once Jace finds out. He notices the instant shift in your mood, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand between his. His palms are warm, grounding.
"We can't keep hiding forever," he mumbles, looking at you with absolute certainty. "It's not fair to us. He's going to go a bit mental whenever he finds out, so we might as well save ourselves the time."
"He's going to hate you."
"I know."
"For a few weeks," a soft smile touches your lips, though it carries a trace of sadness. "But eventually, he'll understand... he has to."
"I'll tell him the second I get back from New York," he promises, lacing his fingers securely through yours. "He can rage at me all he wants. I don't want to hide you anymore."
"I don't want to either."
He leans in, stealing a quick, lingering kiss just before Jace walks back into the kitchen, resuming his conversation, completely oblivious to the shift that had occurred in his absence.
A few days later, Ilia sets off for the Sun Valley show, planned to travel directly to New York afterward for his magazine afterparty and the Time 100 Sports Gala. You patiently wait for him to return, your chest bubbling with a restless mixture of excitement and terror for the moment the truth finally comes to light.
"Pass."
"Bitch, how?" Allie rolls her eyes at you, personally offended that the attraction to the celebrity guy she's currently thirsting over isn't mutual. You simply shrug. "He is, like, so hot."
"Not to me."
"Why? Because he doesn't look like a twink who dyes his hair?"
"Oh, you cunt!" You tug at her wavy hair, slapping her hand away when she tries to do the exact same to yours.
Playing 'smash or pass' with Allie is a fun way to kill time—as long as you agree with her. The second you don't, she makes sure to drag Ilia into it, teasingly referring to him as either a low-testosterone man or a twink. You always roll your eyes, knowing she’s only jesting, but you still defend your ground. "Says the girl who is exclusively into alpha males."
"I am not!"
"Sure."
You give her a mocking smile. She opens her mouth to argue, but the soft chime of the front door bell interrupts her. Giving you one last annoyed look, Allie disappears into the kitchen, leaving you alone to take the order.
With a customer-ready smile already plastered onto your face, you turn toward the counter. But it falters for a fraction of a second when your eyes lock with hers.
"Hey!" Macy says your name, leaning over the counter to pull you into a brief side-hug.
You return it, giving her a tight smile. She is a sweetheart and has never actually done anything to earn your dislike—even though, sometimes, you desperately wish she would. Instead, you're just left with an unpleasant, heavy sinking in your stomach every time she walks into the cafe. Thankfully, it doesn't happen often, even though she lives just a few blocks away and this is technically her local spot.
It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable feeling to face the girl Ilia used to date for almost two years, especially now that you're secretly involved with him. You've hung out with her multiple times in the past because your friend groups forced it, and even though you two were never close and you don't owe her anything, it still feels like you’ve broken some unwritten girl code. It's a bitter, constant reminder that she once had the man you spent years quietly yearning for.
"Long time no see! How are you?" she asks warmly.
"I'm great, Macy." You smile, trying to sweep the ugly feeling aside. She really is beautiful, with her flawless porcelain skin and big, doe-like brown eyes. "Your new haircut looks great on you."
"Haha, thanks! I got bored and chopped it off myself a couple of days ago." She waves it off like it's nothing, even though her hair looks absolutely perfect and effortless—result you've never quite achieved even with the help of professionals. "Guess who missed the pistachio rolls?"
"Well, you arrived at the perfect time. They're fresh out of the oven."
You grab the bakery tongs, carefully choosing the fluffiest, most golden roll from the display. She watches with a smile as you place it into a cardboard box. "Would you like a flat white with that?"
"God, I wish," she sighs, burying her face in her hands. "But I'm trying to cut down on the caffeine. I've gone a bit off the rails lately."
"Haha, totally understandable."
"How's university going?" she asks after she pays, lingering at the counter. You find yourself wishing she would just take her box and go, but she keeps the conversation flowing. "You finished your first year, right?"
"Yep. Surprisingly, it went a lot smoother than I was prepared for."
"Of course it did, you're super smart," she says with a teasing nudge to your shoulder. "And how's Jace? I haven't seen him around in a while."
"He's a lot buffer than he used to be, but otherwise, he's exactly the same," you chuckle, rolling your eyes. "Annoying, I mean."
"I saw your photos at the Spider-Man premiere," Macy’s voice suddenly quietens, her tone shifting as if she is carefully navigating onto sensitive ice. "You must have been absolutely thrilled."
"Yeah," you smile, the memory of that magical night briefly warming you. "I really was."
"Good. You deserved it."
Macy hesitates for a second. You think she's finally about to leave, but she stays put, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the silver rings on her hand.
"How's, um… how's Ilia?"
"He's alright," you shrug, keeping your voice light and casual, desperately hiding the ugly twist of jealousy gnawing at your insides. "He's just preparing for the upcoming season."
"Of course he is," she chuckles softly, her eyes drifting to the floor.
There is a heavy pause. You get the distinct, terrifying feeling that she wants to say something she isn't quite sure she should. A cold trace of worry begins to spread through your veins.
"I actually saw him once since he came back from the tour," she says quietly.
The words land like lead, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth. Your heart starts thumping violently against your ribs, your jaw tightening as you force yourself to keep breathing.
A smile touches Macy's lips, filled with something that looks painfully like regret.
"We, um… we tried to fix things. But it didn't work." She shrugs, giving you a tight, melancholy look.
You want to reach across the counter and slap a hand over her mouth—anything to make her stop talking. But you just stand there, completely frozen, pouring every ounce of your energy into keeping your face entirely blank.
"He came over at night. I think we both just needed to see if the spark was still there. We spent the whole night talking… well, not just talking." she chuckles and something twists deep inside your chest, a breath knocking out of your lungs as you grip the chair behind the counter, your hands digging into the leather. "But by the morning, it was clear we’ve just grown too far apart. I'm glad we had that one last night, though. It was a nice way to finally close the chapter."
She lets out a soft sigh, finally looking up at you with those big, innocent brown eyes, completely unaware of the heavy, suffocating feeling pressing down on your chest. Macy doesn't seem to notice the way the air has left your lungs.
"Anyways, it was nice seeing you!" The easy enthusiasm slips right back into Macy's voice, and she grins. "I should get going before this roll gets cold!"
"Yeah," you barely manage to breathe out, fighting with everything you have to keep your voice from breaking. "Enjoy it, Macy."
"Bye!"
You wave her off, and the very second the door clicks shut behind her, the fragile mask shatters. You break down, your chest heaving violently as the realization crashes over you. Pressing a trembling palm to your chest, you gasp for air, tears instantly blurring your vision before streaming hot down your face.
"Oh my god, what happened?"
Allie’s face is a mask of pure horror when she bursts out of the kitchen. She immediately crouches down beside you, frantically trying to coax out what's wrong. You can't bring yourself to say a single word. Instead, you just weep into her arms, and she lets you, wrapping her arms tight around you and holding your head against her chest.
But the ticking clock reminds you that you’re still at work. Forcing yourself up on shaky legs, you head straight to the employee bathroom to freshen up. You slide the lock into place and lean against the sink, staring at your tear-stained, pale reflection in the mirror.
Hundreds of thoughts race through your mind, but one loops relentlessly. Her words. The nostalgia in her voice. The sad, knowing smile. The implication was as clear as day: He slept with her. After he got back from the tour. When he was supposed to be yours.
Your mind frantically scrambles backward, trying to piece the timeline together. The first night he came back, he had stayed over, waking you up in the middle of the night over those stupid blankets. The next day, he went out with Jace and the guys. They had played that humiliating game, and then they all stayed over.
And then it hits you.
Four pairs of sneakers on the floor the next morning. The lingering assumption that either he or Josh had left in the middle of the night. Did he leave that night to go to Macy's? The exact night he had brushed you off like a joke? Did he spend those hours wrapped around her while you wept yourself to sleep in your bedroom?
It would explain everything. The next afternoon, he had visited you at the cafe, casually claiming he was "just in the neighborhood." And Macy lives just blocks away. It drives you insane because everything makes sense—even when you desperately, frantically want it to be a lie.
With trembling, sweaty fingers, you pull out your phone. Through blurry vision, you open the home security app. Your dad had installed cameras covering the driveway and front porch years ago, always paranoid about safety. You’d only used the app a handful of times in high school, mostly to see if Jace was sneaking out.
Now, you scroll back through the archives, skipping past weeks of footage until you find the exact date. Your heart thumps violently against your ribs, a loud roar in your ears.
And then, you see it vividly. It isn't Josh, but Ilia.
The time stamp on the screen reads just after 3:00 AM. You watch his familiar silhouette quietly step out of the house, his movements cautious as he cuts across the grass toward the driveway to get into his car. To drive to her.
The truth settles into your bones like ice. He spent the night with her, and he only came running back to you after he realized he couldn't have her anymore. You were never his choice. You were just the safe, convenient second option he settled for because the girl he actually wanted wouldn't take him back.
You violently wipe your face dry, the devastating hurt suddenly giving way to a hot, burning anger that flares deep in your chest.
You spend the final hour of your shift in agonizing silence, refusing to say a word to Allie because you know if you speak, you will completely crumble. On the cycle ride back home, you can think of nothing but the two of them, twisting in the sheets together while you were crying in the dark.
When you finally push the front door open, the house is entirely silent. As expected, no one is home. There is no one there to witness your breakdown, and no one to pick up your pieces, promising you that everything will be fine.
summary: You were young, and the whole world was at your feet. At eighteen, you managed to start a rock band, escape your hometown, and begin chasing your dreams. You toured, gained fame, and did what you loved most — making music.
But life has a way of rewriting the script. Just as quickly as you rose to the top, you fell from it. You were kicked out of the very band you founded and, broke and defeated, returned home with your tail between your legs.
What you couldn’t stand the most, however, was the fact that your high school enemy had suddenly gained everything you had lost. And he reminded you of it almost every day, lingering around you like a ghost. Over time, though, once you grew used to his unexpected presence in your life, you began to wonder what you had really hated him for in the first place — and whether you still hated him at all.
content: enemies to lovers, angst, slow burn, hurt/comfort, strong language, shy ilia, mean and messy reader, reader has anger issues, anxiety, miscommunication, rock band, bassist!reader, reader has a 70s rockstar aesthetic, mentions of cigarettes, sex, alcohol and drugs, almost famous/daisy jones and the six vibes, happy ending, dysfunctional family, injury and blood
word count: 10,7k
author's note: 3 more chapters to go... even though this was originally supposed to be only 2 parts 😭 but I got attached to the reader and I still have a few ideas left lol. The worst is behind us now. I remembered that in the age of the internet the reader would probably get cancelled 💀 so I wanted to touch on that a little... buuut Ian and Penny will pay for their crimes. Also, one of my friends recently found a tiny stray kitten in a ditch and ended up adopting it, and that kinda inspired this little plot point haha. English isn't my first language, so sometimes I get a bit carried away with metaphors and comparisons. Anyway, enjoy <3
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When you finally clawed your way out of sleep — a sleep that felt less like rest and more like an extension of the night you'd spent in the bar — you were struck at once by a vast, terrifying post-drunk realization: you didn't understand the world (your second realization was that you were spectacularly hungover).
It wasn't merely that the world made no sense to you — you didn't know how to exist inside it. It frightened you, governed by rules you had spent your entire life bending until they almost broke. Back when you were touring with your band, you had lived as though reality itself revolved around you, a universe handcrafted to your own reckless design. Stability meant nothing. Taxes meant nothing. Savings accounts, college, having a permanent place to live, settling down with someone — none of it had ever mattered. Music was the only thing that counted, along with passing a shared joint around the cramped tour bus that had become your home. As long as there was a bass in your hands, tomorrow simply didn't exist.
But ever since reality had caught up with you — a world stripped of every comforting illusion, overwhelming in its honesty and almost frightening in its sheer indifference, filled with the problems of ordinary people instead of a rockstar drifting from one concert to the next, one party to another — you had felt hopelessly lost.
You didn't know how to adapt. You were one colossal, walking disaster. The fact that you'd somehow ended up in Ilia Malinin's bed, spending half the night soaking a stuffed animal his fans had given him with your tears, was proof enough of just how far you'd fallen.
You rolled onto your other side and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, trying to chase away the last stubborn traces of your dream. You hadn't even managed to gather your thoughts or piece together everything that had happened the night before when a high-pitched scream ripped through the room.
"Oh my days... NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Startled by the sudden outburst, you jerked upright so quickly that you regretted it instantly. The room spun violently, and a wave of nausea crashed over you. What surprised you even more than the scream itself was the sight of Ilia sitting at his computer, looking utterly devastated. As far as you remembered, he was supposed to have been at the rink first thing that morning.
Unless you'd been so drunk you'd imagined half the conversations you'd had with him — the softness in his voice, the quiet kindness he'd shown you. No one else would have taken care of you. No one else would have brought you home.
The realization hit harder than the hangover. Apart from William, who had enough problems of his own, Patrick, and aunt Andrea — who, if anything, seemed to tolerate you less with every passing day — you had no one. Only Ilia, your high-school enemy. Everyone else hated you.
"What the hell are you doing, you absolute jackass?" you yawned. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
Even with the black headphones covering his ears, Ilia seemed to hear you. He slid them down around his neck and slowly turned in his chair, offering you an apologetic look.
"Uh..." He scratched the back of his neck. "Playing a video game?" He sounded genuinely sheepish, visibly embarrassed for waking you.
You frowned.
"At seven in the morning?" you muttered. "I thought you had practice."
Ilia froze for a moment, clearly unsure how to answer.
"Uh... yeah. I did." He paused awkwardly before adding, "It's... two in the afternoon."
At first, you were convinced he was joking.
Your gaze drifted from him to the digital clock resting on his nightstand, beside an open notebook where, judging by its well-worn pages, Ilia probably scribbled down profound thoughts and painfully awful poetry. For a long moment, an uncomfortable silence settled between you. He simply watched you, studying your perfectly blank expression, searching for some clue to the storm gathering behind your eyes.
Only then did it sink in. You practically launched yourself out of bed like a startled cat. Speaking of cats, Mysti was lazily observing you from the cat tree. You ignored her existence entirely, far too consumed by the horrifying realization that you'd slept through half the day and that aunt Andrea, after coming home from work, discovering you'd vanished along with the spectacular mess you'd left behind, had probably already packed your belongings and dumped them out on the porch.
Panicking, you snatched up your jeans, which Ilia had thoughtfully moved from the middle of the floor onto the pile of plushies. The moment you bent down, you barely managed to suppress a violent wave of nausea.
"Why didn't you wake me up?!" you squeaked, frantically trying to force your foot through the right pant leg. You nearly toppled over in the process. Ilia awkwardly averted his eyes. "Shit, shit, SHIT! I'm so screwed, bro." You finally managed to yank your jeans up. "I was supposed to have a job interview at the bakery at twelve!" You fumbled with the button at your waist, your fingers refusing to cooperate. "Fuck!"
"What? No, I'm talking about my little sister." Ilia suddenly turned back toward his computer. "Yeah, I know, she swears like craaazy. I seriously need to tell my mom." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "No, I didn't bring a girl home! I'm telling you, it's Liza." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh my God, dude, don't be weird." A sigh escaped him. "Hang on, I'll be back in a sec."
You turned toward him, utterly bewildered. You assumed he was talking to someone on Discord. You sincerely hoped it wasn't one of his old high school friends — the same ones who had never bothered hiding how much they despised you. Then again, judging from what little you'd seen on social media, that whole friend group had fallen apart shortly after graduation. You imagined it couldn't have been easy for Ilia to keep old friendships alive once he'd become a full-time athlete. Besides, most of them had stayed close with his ex-girlfriend, and from everything you'd heard, their breakup had been anything but amicable.
"Who are you talking to?" you asked, sinking back onto the bed.
Your skull felt as though it might split open at any second. Your tolerance for alcohol had become embarrassingly low. Even back when you were in the band, you had always been the one who drank the least. Ian and Penny practically lived from one party to the next, while you and Dean usually lingered somewhere on the edges, watching the chaos instead of becoming part of it.
I wonder how they're doing now, you caught yourself thinking. You'd blocked Ian and Penny on every social media platform imaginable, while Dean almost never posted anything. Were they working on a third album? Did they ever regret getting rid of you?
"My best friend, Jacob," Ilia explained cheerfully. "Sorry, I kinda forgot to mute my mic. But my webcam isn't turned on, so he didn’t see you."
"Okay..." You sighed, absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeve of his oversized hoodie, which, much to your surprise, had been incredibly comfortable to sleep in. "So?" You looked back at him. "Why didn't you wake me up?" A crooked smile tugged at your lips despite your misery. "I could've just snuck out through the window this morning." You shrugged dramatically. "You know... like a ninja."
Ilia let out a quiet laugh beneath his breath.
“Well, you were kinda drunk and really upset, and I figured you could use the sleep, Miss Ninja.”
His words wrapped around your heart like an invisible hand, squeezing just enough to steal your breath. He sounded as though he had been genuinely worried about you. Letting you crash at his place was one thing, but actually caring whether you were alright — that belonged to an entirely different universe. You parted your lips, ready to thank him, only to catch yourself at the last possible second. You refused to abandon the role you had so carefully built — the angry, rebellious rockstar forever at war with the world — especially in front of Ilia, the one person you kept insisting you were supposed to hate.
“Great,” you muttered instead, rubbing your eyes. Your lashes felt stiff and heavy, and only then did the dreadful realization strike you; you'd never taken your mascara off. You had committed the greatest skincare sin imaginable: you'd fallen asleep wearing makeup.
“My parents aren't home,” Ilia said. “They're still at the rink. Sarah asked them to stay longer before Worlds since Alysa pulled out and she's taking her spot.” You hadn't the faintest idea who Sarah was. “So you can just leave through the front door. Coast is clear.”
For some reason, even though you'd already missed your job interview and still had to retrieve your purse from The Hideout, you weren't in any hurry to leave. Ilia's room, despite looking as though it belonged to an overgrown teenage nerd, possessed an odd, comforting warmth that settled quietly beneath your skin.
Or perhaps it wasn't the room at all. Perhaps it was simply Ilia.
Your feelings had become such an impossible knot that nothing felt certain anymore, nothing cleanly divided into black and white. You weren't even sure why you supposedly hated Malinin anymore.
Or rather, why you kept clinging so stubbornly to that lie.
“And you're sure they don't know I slept here?” you asked, preferring reassurance over the horrifying possibility of running straight into Roman or Tatiana sitting in the living room watching television.
Ilia's confidence visibly faltered. You fixed him with a stern look.
“Well... I mean...” he trailed off awkwardly, pushing the gold-rimmed glasses that had slipped down the bridge of his nose back into place. “If Liza didn't rat me out... then probably not.”
“Okay. Good.” You released a visible sigh of relief. “Your mom would probably kill me.” You studied him for a beat before narrowing your eyes. “By the way... why are you screaming like a five-year-old girl? Those shrieks could've woken Sleeping Beauty.”
He scratched the back of his neck.
“Jacob and I are playing Geometry Dash, and I can't beat this level.”
“Which one?”
You climbed reluctantly out of bed and slowly shuffled toward his gaming setup. Mysti followed every step with her luminous green eyes. The instant her tail twitched and she leapt gracefully from the cat tree, you froze in place and waited until she disappeared through the half-open door before daring to move again.
Meanwhile, Ilia looked at you with open confusion, as if he couldn't imagine why you'd possibly care which level had defeated him.
“Uh... the sixth one,” he answered after a long pause, spinning back toward his monitor.
You stopped beside his desk and leaned over the screen, squinting thoughtfully. Your elbow swung a little too wide and nearly knocked an almost-full can of Coke Zero straight onto his keyboard. Ilia didn't even register the near catastrophe; he was far too busy watching your every movement with growing panic, as though you were about to pull a hammer from behind your back and smash his computer into pieces.
Or, even worse — turn out to be a better gamer than him. Which, frankly, seemed far more likely.
“Can't Let Go?” you scoffed. “Come on. A five-year-old could beat that level blindfolded. Seriously? I thought you were trying to clear a Demon level or something.” You frowned, snapping your fingers as you searched your memory. “Y'know... the one with all the moving objects and all that crazy shit. What's it called again? Theory...”
Ilia stared at you with eyes so wide they looked ready to fall out of his head, as though he were sitting in the kiss-and-cry waiting for his scores and had just discovered he'd broken another world record. Or learned Pokémon were real.
“Theory of Everything 2?” he finished, his voice shooting into an unmistakably high, disbelieving register.
“Oh, yeah, that one.” You snapped your fingers again with effortless nonchalance. “That one was actually pretty tough, from what I remember. I didn't beat it until my third attempt.”
Ilia blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
“On your third try?!” he blurted, nearly knocking over his can in the process and almost tipping himself straight out of his chair. “YOOO! Yo, you're lying!”
“Why the fuck would I?” you shot back, genuinely offended that he'd dare accuse you of making something like that up. “About a stupid game?”
“It is not stupid!” he protested, puffing out his lips in a childish pout.
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't suppress the smile tugging stubbornly at the corners of your mouth. It dawned on you then that every ounce of anger you'd carried toward him — the resentment that had burned inside you until only yesterday, the bitterness you'd nursed for years — had vanished together with the last traces of alcohol still lingering in your bloodstream.
For one fleeting moment, you felt sixteen again, sitting beside him at the skate park as if the years in between had never happened.
“Whatever. Move, asshole.”
You shoved at both him and the chair, trying to claim his spot at the desk so you could show him how the game was actually supposed to be played. Stretching out your hand, you reached for the controller, but he jerked it protectively out of your grasp at the last second.
You glared at him.
“Noo, wait! I wanna beat it myself!”
“Then quit whining, you baby. Let me play,” you insisted.
“No!”
“Ilia-”
“I know I can beat it!”
For several long seconds you weighed your options: let it go or keep arguing. Backing down had never been in either of your natures. At last, you sucked in a dramatic breath through your teeth. There was no turning back.
Before you could reconsider, propelled by the sheer force of your stubbornness — wild and impulsive as a squall rolling in over open water — you simply lowered yourself onto Ilia's lap and scooted the chair closer to the desk, bringing both of you with it.
“Shut the fuck up,” you warned him, though he'd already lost the ability to say anything at all.
The words died somewhere in his throat, taking what remained of his confidence with them. He went utterly still, not even protesting when you slipped the console from his hands. He simply obeyed, staring at you as though you'd descended from heaven wrapped in celestial robes.
You hesitated before starting the level. Only now did it fully register that your wounded pride had landed you squarely in Ilia's lap, practically crushing him beneath your weight. The arrogance drained from you in an instant. You regretted your decision almost immediately. Beneath you, you could feel the warmth of his toned thigh, left bare beneath his shorts, and that single, impossible awareness refused to leave your mind, making it nearly impossible to focus on the razor-thin cube jumps and delicate ship maneuvers that demanded absolute precision.
Somehow, despite your racing heart, your uneven breathing, and the sweat gathering on trembling fingers that kept slipping against the controller, you cleared every obstacle flawlessly and finished the level in record time.
“It's really not that hard,” you laughed nervously, finally daring to glance at Ilia for the first time since you'd so spectacularly invaded every inch of his personal space. “See?”
He looked as though he'd just walked out of a sauna. A warm blush flooded every inch of his face, his cheeks burned a furious crimson, his soft pink lips hung slightly parted, and his widened blue eyes overflowed with utter disbelief. You couldn't tell whether he was more stunned by your outrageous behavior or by how effortlessly you'd beaten the level he'd been struggling with.
A notification flashed in the corner of the monitor. Your gaze drifted toward the Discord icon. Jacob was relentlessly trying to get Ilia's attention in the chat. Taking advantage of the fact that Malinin still appeared completely frozen, you expanded the Discord window and decided to answer Sánchez yourself.
“How did you...” Ilia finally managed.
He shifted slightly beneath you in the chair, though there wasn't the faintest trace of discomfort in the movement.
“O.” Another pause. “O.” He looked like a fish stranded on dry land, desperately gasping for air. “O. Bro, I'm speechless.” He dragged a hand down his face, nearly knocking his glasses clean off his nose. “You're actually insane.” He stared at the timer in open disbelief. “Eighty-three seconds?! That's a fricking record!”
“And that was my first run in, like, a milion years,” you replied, your voice positively dripping with pride. You hadn't even realized you'd broken the record — especially while being so hopelessly distracted.
"Yooo..." Ilia finally snapped out of his daze and looked back at the monitor, only to realize you were typing to Jacob. "Wait, whaaat are you doing?"
Pure instinct took over. He caught your wrist, gently lifting your hand away from the keyboard before drawing it between the two of you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist and holding it close against his chest.
You froze. The gesture stole every coherent thought from your mind. Unfortunately for him, you'd already hit Enter.
"Your friend's asking why you turned your mic off," you said with maddening composure. "I told him you're jerking off under the desk."
Ilia knew you well enough by now to believe you were fully capable of something that unhinged, and panic flashed across his face as he whipped around to inspect the chat. He braced himself for vulgarity, public humiliation, social death… only to sag with visible relief. Instead, you'd written that he'd muted himself because his mom had started vacuuming the hallway, and the noise was drowning him out.
"You are an evil woman," he muttered, shooting you a look that sparkled with reluctant amusement.
Then he realized he was still holding your hand. His fingers released your wrist so quickly it was almost clumsy, anxiety flickering across his features as though he'd suddenly wondered whether he'd crossed a line.
Ironically, out of the two of you, you were still the one sitting in his lap long after the game had ended. You wanted to get up — you genuinely did. But your legs refused to cooperate, as weightless and unreliable as spun cotton.
"Finally," you giggled under your breath, your voice stripped of every ounce of its usual bravado. "A compliment."
"So..." Ilia ventured, affecting casualness while, behind those blue eyes, already constructing an elaborate plan that somehow involved dragging you into gaming sessions and eventually onto a Twitch stream. "Did you play anything else? Fortnite? WoT? Minecraft?"
"Whoa, slow down there, cowboy." You cut him off before his enthusiasm could gather momentum. "I'm not THAT much of a loser. I only played browser games and The Sims back in middle school."
"Right..." He cast you a quick sidelong glance — the same unconscious little side-eye he'd apparently developed whenever he grew flustered, something you were now certain he didn't even realize he did. "You're way too cool to be a gamer."
"Exactly." You grinned.
Silence settled between the two of you, delicate and uncertain, neither of you quite knowing how to be the first to disturb it. The amusement gradually faded from Ilia's face, replaced by something infinitely softer — a tenderness left unspoken, lingering quietly beneath the surface. He watched you with quiet concentration, studying your face as though it were a Renaissance masterpiece hanging in a silent gallery or the painted likeness of a saint illuminated by candlelight inside an old cathedral. Then, without warning or ceremony, he lifted his hand and gently cupped your cheek, his movements slow with careful intent, never breaking eye contact as his thumb swept lightly beneath your eye.
You stopped breathing.
The warmth of his touch against your skin unraveled something inside you. That tiny spark of affection summoned emotions across your face that Ilia had never witnessed before — a face usually carved from marble or twisted into defiance now softened by unfamiliar vulnerability. Among them flickered something almost primal: fear itself, the terror of surrendering control... and of losing something too precious to name.
A strange sensation washed over you, bewildering in its sweetness, carrying with it the bittersweet taste of nostalgia. You couldn't remember the last time anyone had treated you with such tenderness — or the last time you had allowed yourself to become this vulnerable. Your lips parted, yet for a moment language abandoned you altogether. A deep, aching gentleness settled inside your chest, and for several heartbeats you did nothing except look into Ilia's pale blue eyes while the fracture opening inside you widened with frightening ease.
You could no longer tell where the resentment you'd stubbornly tried to reserve for Malinin ended and where something dangerously close to affection began. You couldn't find the dividing line. Perhaps, you realized, boundaries were nothing more than inventions of the human mind.
You sprang to your feet so abruptly that the fragile intimacy shattered in an instant. Inside your head, the moment had stretched into an eternity. In reality, it had lasted only seconds.
Ilia instinctively rolled his chair backward, startled by your reaction, a tiny vertical crease appearing between his brows.
"What the fuck, Ilia?!" you blurted, slipping back into your familiar armor of anger with practiced ease.
"Sorry," he answered immediately. "You had an eyelash." He held up his fingertip like evidence before a jury, a single dark lash resting against the pad of his finger. "See?"
"Oh." Heat rushed to your face. You were almost certain your ears had turned bright red. "Um... thanks?"
"No problem."
You leaned your full weight against his desk, lowering your gaze to the carpet scattered with Mysti's black fur. You felt almost drunk again; your head swam, except now the alcohol had been replaced by a storm of emotions colliding inside your chest. You needed air. You needed distance.
You needed a moment to gather the scattered pieces of yourself.
"Fuck, I probably look like a raccoon that crawled out of a dumpster," you muttered, grasping at the first excuse that came to mind. "Can I use the bathroom real quick?"
"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead." For reasons even he couldn't quite explain, Ilia suddenly found himself unable to meet your eyes. Instead, he fixed his attention on the two beaded bracelets wrapped around his wrist. "I'll... try that level again," he mumbled. "Maybe beat your time."
You let out a quiet scoff.
"Ha. Good luck with that."
Ilia's nose scrunched into a broad grin, the way it always did after a flawless skate when he stood at center ice, basking in the thunderous applause washing down from the stands, before he slipped his headphones back over his ears.
Moving slowly toward the door, still replaying the last few seconds over and over inside your mind, you let your gaze wander around Ilia's room, trying to memorize every little detail that daylight now revealed so much more clearly than the darkness had the night before. Star Wars figurines stood guard across the shelves beside stacks of geography books; framed photographs captured a tiny Ilia smiling on the ice; there was even a cartoon portrait commemorating the competition where he'd landed his first quad Axel, while skateboards lined the walls in neat display — somehow escaping your notice the previous night entirely.
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing when your eyes landed on his name, spelled out in oversized decorative letters mounted proudly above the closet door.
The contrast was nothing short of bewildering. You couldn't wrap your head around the fact that an Olympic medalist, a two-time — perhaps soon-to-be three-time — World Champion, a record-breaker, someone so influential and revered within the skating world, slept in a bedroom that looked as though it belonged to an overgrown toddler, squealed with delight over video games like an excitable little kid, and meticulously filled sticker albums with soccer players.
Ilia Malinin possessed an astonishing number of different selves. And you couldn't help wondering what other versions of him still remained hidden beneath the surface.
Guided by little more than instinct, you wandered quietly through his house on the balls of your feet. With every step, your unease grew, fueled by the nagging fear that his parents might actually be home after all, and that you would have absolutely no believable explanation for your presence. Finding the bathroom proved surprisingly easy. You never ventured upstairs, convinced that Liza's bedroom — and Tatiana's and Roman's — were up there, while the downstairs hallway held only two doors, the first opening into the laundry room.
You paused in the doorway. A dark suitcase lay sprawled open across the floor, Ilia's skates tossed carelessly inside alongside a heap of wrinkled clothes that, judging by their condition, hadn't been washed since he'd returned from Milan.
You shook your head in quiet disapproval. Not that you had any moral high ground. The bowl from your cereal was probably still sitting in Andrea's sink, the trash remained stubbornly unemptied, and you had no doubt you'd earn yourself another lecture for both.
You opened the second door and stepped into the bathroom, flicking on the light. The room was neat enough, save for a scattering of water droplets glistening across the tile floor and a small hand towel carelessly abandoned over the edge of the sink.
Suddenly, your jeans vibrated. Only then did you remember your phone was still tucked into your pocket. You pulled it out and glanced at the Instagram notification.
The moment you saw who had messaged you, shock crashed over you so violently that the phone slipped from your hand, landed squarely on your foot, and tore a loud curse from your throat.
Lucky for you, it hadn't hit the tiles instead. Tatiana probably would've murdered you if you'd smashed up her bathroom.
"BRO, YOU OKAY?!" Ilia squeaked from somewhere beyond the walls, evidently hearing you through his headset. His voice dripped with concern.
"Yup!" you shouted back, still grimacing as pain pulsed through your toes.
Muttering under your breath at your own spectacular clumsiness, you bent to retrieve your phone.
Speak of the devil. Only moments ago, you'd been dwelling on your former bandmates, and now one of them had decided — for reasons entirely beyond your understanding — to reach out.
imnotdean2004: hey 👋
You opened Instagram and tapped on the message that had arrived only seconds earlier. One hand lingered on the bathroom doorknob while you debated whether answering at all was a terrible idea.
Curiosity won; it always did. You locked the bathroom door, let your back slide slowly down against the wood until you were sitting on the cool tile floor, then finally began typing your reply.
your_username: no, i'm not writing 8 songs for your new album. Bye
The reply came almost instantly, as though Dean had never even left your shared chat. You let out a derisive snort, your lips tightening into a hard line as surprise settled over your features at what you'd just read.
imnotdean2004: c'mon, don't be like that 😭 i just wanted to see how you're doing
your_username: like shit
imnotdean2004: saw on Ilia Malinin's story that yesterday you played at The Hideout
Switching from your private conversation with Dean back to your home feed, you immediately saw that Ilia had, in fact, posted something — a rarity ever since returning from Milan. You tapped the circular icon of his story at the top of the screen, and a short video unfurled before your eyes: a fifteen-second clip he'd filmed during yours and Patrick's performance. He hadn't tagged you, yet your face was unmistakably visible, your voice carrying clearly through the recording.
Your fingers trembled as you typed:
your_username: okay? and?
imnotdean2004: you were really good. who's that drummer you were playing with? he's actually insane. dude's got potential
your_username: don't worry about him. and since when do u even follow ilia on ig? 🤨
imnotdean2004: i mean... he's an Olympian lol. the guy's famous. if he follows me back maybe i'll get some extra clout or smth
imnotdean2004: the real question is – since when are you hanging out with him? Girl, you literally hated him in high school.
your_username: none of your business. Fuck off before I block you.
imnotdean2004: alright, alright. i miss u
imnotdean2004: the band's just not the same without you.
your_username: then leave the band. simple as that 🤷
imnotdean2004: or u could apologize to Ian and Penny and come back.
your_username: after they lied about me, called me a slut, and destroyed my career? yeah. not happening.
your_username: you're better than them, Dean. leave.
He left you on seen.
The conversation with Dean was one thing, but what unsettled you far more was the story Ilia had posted — or rather, the consequences it would inevitably bring. On social media, you were public enemy number one; after the so-called ‘sex scandal’ with Ian, you'd lost thousands of followers, and in the first chaotic days after the controversy erupted, you'd even been forced to temporarily delete your accounts. Although a handful of people had remained on your side throughout the artificially manufactured, utterly fabricated conflict, you knew you were despised by Ian's and Penny's fans alike, so with a knot tightening in your stomach you hurriedly combed through Ilia's profile, anxious to see what people had made of a story that featured you so prominently.
It looked bad — far worse than you'd expected. It painted the picture of two close friends, of an Olympic champion showing up to support your gig, and it certainly didn't help that only a few days earlier you'd followed all of his accounts again.
It took barely any scrolling before the comments beneath his newest Instagram post began flashing across your screen like venom-tipped arrows.
BRO IS THAT Y/N ON YOUR STORY 💀 why are you slumming it with her 😭 go focus on Worlds instead
Address me.
OUT OF EVERY GIRL YOU CHOSE Y/N?! I swear I can't defend you anymore bro.
bet she's fucking him lol that's all she can do apparently
Problematic queen and king.
never liked you anyway, u r glazed af
seems that homewreckers stick together 🫠
The longer you scrolled, the tighter your stomach twisted into painful knots, your heart climbing relentlessly into your throat. Your own social media hadn't escaped the fallout either. You wisely stayed away from Twitter — people there were especially merciless. The newest comments beneath your latest TikTok were already more than enough.
First Ian, now Ilia? Bfr 😂
Girl, leave Ilia alone, he's way too good for u.
You like the attention SO much that now you're showing up with Olympians 😭 pathetic
So you're into figure skaters now?
Thankfully, before you could dig yourself into even uglier insults, your phone battery died, its screen fading into black.
As cruel and vulgar as the abuse aimed at you was, it barely stirred anything inside you anymore; you'd grown accustomed to carrying hatred the way sailors carried salt on their skin. But seeing that same venom spill onto Ilia's name hollowed something out inside your chest.
You weren't angry with him for posting the video — quite the opposite. If anything, the gesture had quietly flattered you. Long ago, Ilia had stopped sharing fragments of his private life with the internet, posting almost nothing besides figure skating and his cats.
You simply couldn't bear the thought of ruining the reputation he'd worked so hard to build.
In a world that had finally begun speaking out against misogyny in the media, somehow you had been left behind, forgotten in the dust. No one had wanted to hear your side. Perhaps if only Ian had spread those lies, someone might have stood up for you — but all it had taken was the false testimony of another woman, and your name had been condemned beyond redemption.
It didn't help that you'd always been known as the band's most arrogant — and meanest — member. That much, at least, was your own doing. You still believed you were an exceptional musician, and on that point, you had absolutely no intention of becoming humble.
With trembling hands, you slipped your dead phone back into the rear pocket of your jeans and drew several slow, deliberate breaths, trying to quiet the frantic pounding beneath your ribs. You hauled yourself off the floor and, through a haze clouding your vision, reluctantly faced the bathroom mirror; just as you'd expected, your makeup was utterly ruined. Dark, dried streaks of mascara — the unmistakable relics of last night's tears — shadowed the delicate skin beneath your waterline. You looked like misery given human form, a portrait painted in exhaustion and heartbreak, and yet only moments ago Ilia had looked at you as though you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Or maybe that had only existed inside your own head.
You were hungover, sleep-deprived despite having slept for hours, and your own traitorous feelings had begun weaving knots inside your mind that you no longer knew how to untangle. You were more lost than you'd ever been.
You had no idea what to do in the face of the tidal wave of hatred that had crashed over both of you. You refused to drag Ilia down with you, and so, your emotions splintering in every direction, you arrived at a decision that felt as sudden as it was inevitable. The sooner you prevented his reputation from being destroyed, the better. It was enough that you alone carried the crushing burden of being universally despised.
You had never hated anyone more fiercely than you hated Ian and Penny in that very moment.
Even though you were no longer part of the band, they still found new ways to haunt you, to grind you beneath their heels. First they'd destroyed your career, then your honor and your pride, and now they'd reached for the one thing that had barely begun to blossom — a fragile friendship with Ilia.
Refusing to look at your reflection any longer than absolutely necessary, you twisted the faucet open with a sharp, impatient jerk and bent over the sink. Icy streams lashed your burning cheeks. You cupped water in your hands and swallowed a mouthful, then another, and another. It did nothing to soothe the wild stampede beneath your ribs, and the thought of ending whatever this was between you and Ilia before you ruined his life too lingered stubbornly in the back of your mind.
You were a walking disaster at this point.
In the end, common sense prevailed. Before you could rethink your decision or surrender to the selfish part of yourself begging you to stay, you hurried back toward Ilia's room.
You found him exactly as you'd left him: hunched over his computer, still playing Geometry Dash, laughing at something Jacob had just said. He was so completely absorbed in the new level that he didn't even notice you step back inside.
"Hahaha, yooo, sick."
You knew your temper. You knew exactly how this was going to end. Even so, you drew one slow, steadying breath, already certain of what you were about to do.
"Hey, dickhead." You tapped him on the shoulder and, without warning, pulled his headphones off. "Explain this." You pointed toward the phone lying beside his keyboard, its keys glowing faint, red light.
Still seated, Ilia slowly turned with his chair until he was facing you, yet his eyes wandered somewhere over your shoulder, as though they were afraid to meet the storm gathering in yours. He looked utterly bewildered.
Something tightened painfully in your stomach, and for a fleeting heartbeat your anger softened. The remorse that flickered across your face died almost as quickly as it had appeared. A second later, you fixed him with a look sharp enough to draw blood. He never even noticed it.
"What the hell, Y/N?!" he blurted, his voice tangled between genuine confusion and wounded indignation at your sudden explosion. "Explain what? I seriously don't know what you're talking about."
Jacob's triumphant yell burst through the discarded headset.
"I knew it wasn't Liza!"
Ilia shot to his feet so abruptly that the chair rolled backward across the floor, then hastily closed Discord, abandoning his friend without so much as a single word of explanation.
“Why did you record me and Patrick and put it on your Instagram story?” you demanded, pouring every ounce of fury you could muster into your voice. “Did you even ask for my permission? Y'know, consent to share someone's image and all that shit, does that ring a bell?”
Ilia's gaze darted away.
“Well... you guys played really well, so I thought…”
“Thought what?” you cut him off before he could finish, desperate to end this as quickly as possible because you knew that if the argument dragged on any longer, you'd be the one who broke first. “That you'd swoop in like some fairy godmother and save me? The great Ilia Malinin is gonna rescue the doomed rock star's reputation? Why the hell would you think I want people associating me with you?” The words spilled from your mouth like broken glass. “Delete it. Now.”
You didn't mean a single word you'd just said. Not one.
But you gave nothing away.
Your ears rang with the deafening thunder of your heartbeat, your entire body prickled with static as though lightning had settled beneath your skin. Across from you, Ilia flushed crimson — part shame, part anger. His hands trembled almost imperceptibly, his breathing turned shallow, and panic blossomed inside his chest like frost spreading across glass. He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to run.
“Well... no,” he answered at last, his mouth settling into an unhappy line.
“Delete it, Malinin,” you growled. “I fucking mean it.”
The fire burning in your eyes bored into him with such ferocity that, almost involuntarily, Ilia took a step backward. You parted your lips as if another blow was waiting to be delivered, but the words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat.
“What is your problem? Are you scared Penny and your friends are gonna see you hanging out with me?”
Rage surged through you. The thought that he still believed you cared about those people made your blood boil. You couldn't have cared less about some backstabbing, talentless idiot who, in her entire life, had never managed to produce a single thoughtful idea, whose weed-fried brain was nothing more than a murky abyss whose depths, paradoxically, contained absolutely nothing but sludge.
“Maybe,” you lied, betraying both yourself and everything you truly felt, punctuating the word with a careless shrug. “Just delete it, goddammit!”
Your reaction only deepened the irritation flickering across his face, and your hostility awakened something equally stubborn inside him — the instinct to finally stand his ground. He stepped toward you, circling until he'd blocked the doorway, cutting off your escape from his room.
“Oh my God, stop yelling at me, alright?!” This time, it was he who met you with a cold, lingering stare. “You're actually unbelievable.” A bitter scoff escaped him. “No wonder nobody likes you. Keep acting like a bitch, and you're gonna end up completely alone.” He broke off, dragging his fingers through the short, messy strands of his hair. “I shouldn't have come when you asked me.” His voice cracked with frustration. “I'm so stupid.”
“Finally,” you replied with poisonous satisfaction, “you admitted it. Now get out of my way. I'm in a hurry.” Your jaw tightened. “I need to get my purse and bass guitar back. And for fuck’s sake, delete the damn video.”
You tried to shoulder past him. The collision was light, but it was enough. His patience snapped like a violin string stretched too tightly. His hand shot out, firm around your upper arm, and with one decisive pull he stopped you in place. The unexpected force behind the gesture made you instinctively flinch, your shoulders curling inward.
Ilia looked ready to erupt. His pale brows drew together in anger, a faint vein surfacing near his hairline, throbbing with barely restrained fury. You wrenched yourself free from his grip.
“I'm so fucking tired of fighting with you.” Exhaustion crept into his voice, dull and heavy, as though every argument you'd ever had had settled inside him. “Why do you keep treating me like shit? I know you don't like me because of... well, everything that happened in high school, but that was, what, four years ago? I told you I was sorry.”
You had no answer, so you reached for the oldest one you knew.
“I don't care how many years ago it was.” Your eyes hardened. “You were still a dick.”
“Like you were some kind of saint,” he shot back, his words edged with equal bitterness. “We were fucking teenagers, Y/N. I said stupid shit, you said stupid shit — it doesn't matter anymore.” He shook his head, disbelief clouding his expression. “I thought we'd finally, like, cleared all that up.”
You laughed. It was dry, artificial. The sound resembled a flock of black birds tearing through an empty sky. Humility had never belonged to your nature, and admitting your own faults was a language you still refused to learn.
“Of course it fucking matters!” you snapped. “Besides, I was bored, wasted, and desperate, that's why I texted you. It wasn't some huge deal, Malinin. Did you seriously think I was nice to you because I actually liked you?” You laughed again, harsher this time. “I was drunk as hell. That's it.” The tension between you stretched until it felt ready to tear the room apart, and somewhere along the way you'd both forgotten what the fight had even been about. “Jesus fucking Christ,” you muttered, your voice dripping with contempt. “You seriously live in some fantasy land.” You looked at him as though he were someone infinitely distant. “I almost feel sorry for you.”
The look that crossed Ilia's face made you regret your words the instant they left your mouth, but there was no reaching after them now, no gathering them back before they'd done their damage. His forehead furrowed, his expressive eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly, and his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, the corners sinking downward beneath a weight they could no longer bear. You had seen that exact expression only once before — on the ice in Milan, after the final notes of his four-minute free skate had faded into silence.
“So... you just use people whenever you feel like it?” he asked quietly, no longer able to look you in the eye. He sounded defeated. “And I really thought you'd changed.”
Those few words alone were enough to push you to the brink of emotional collapse. More than anything, you wanted to sink onto the floor and cry.
If someone had told you only a few days earlier that you'd end up feeling guilty after arguing with Ilia Malinin, you would've laughed in their face. Now it felt as though every cruel word you hurled at him had ripped another piece of your heart clean out of your chest.
This time, you were the villain. Or perhaps you had been all along.
“Yeah, well...” Your voice, paradoxically, softened, melancholy bleeding through every syllable. “I'm just as awful as I was in high school.” You swallowed. “And you're still just as dumb.” You had to leave. Immediately. “Adiós, quad flop.”
“And people say I'm the egotistical, rude asshole,” he muttered bitterly beneath his breath, a humorless scoff escaping him. “Honestly? Maybe they're right. I am rude when I'm in a bad mood...” He shook his head. “But clearly they've never heard you talk.”
“Clearly.”
Without another unnecessary word, you walked out of his room, your head bowed like someone returning from a battle they'd never stood a chance of winning, refusing to look back.
You were still wearing the oversized hoodie he'd lent you to sleep in. Its familiar scent wrapped around you like a ghost. Your eyes filled with tears. Never in your life had your heart hurt this much — not when the band had thrown you out, not when Ilia and his friends had laughed at you online, not even when Patrick had spilled juice all over your nearly antique copy of Rolling Stone with John Lennon on the cover.
This time, you were your own executioner. You had inflicted this wound yourself.
For once in your life, you'd tried not to be selfish, tried to do something for someone else's sake, and somehow you'd still managed to sound like the world's greatest egotist, someone who, instead of protecting Ilia, had only succeeded in hurting him.
Apparently, that was all you knew how to do. Leave ruin in your wake. Start fights. Break people. Disappoint them. Maybe your mother, Penny, and all those former fans hadn't been wrong about you after all.
As you stepped out of the Skorniakov-Malinin house, it felt as though you had willingly descended into the Ninth Circle of Dante's Inferno. It was no coincidence that at the very heart of Hell stretched the frozen lake of Cocytus — the eternal symbol of betrayal in its purest, most unforgivable form — for its glacial stillness echoed with unsettling perfection both the merciless betrayal you'd committed against Ilia and the bleak March sky hanging over the world, as cold, silent, and merciless as the guilt slowly entombing your heart.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
At first, you were relieved that Ilia had left for the Czech Republic so quickly. Ever since the night you spent in his room, your pathetic drunken spiral into existential despair, and the spectacular argument you'd picked over one stupid Instagram story, you had been far too embarrassed to face him. You suspected he wasn't exactly eager to run into you either. If he'd merely disliked you before, now he had every right to hate you with his whole heart.
Besides, you had other disasters demanding your attention.
After missing your job interview at the bakery, getting into a fight with your aunt over taking out the trash, and enduring a painfully uncomfortable phone call from Sophie's mother — who had discovered your rather infamous musical career along with the scandal attached to your name, decided you were a disgraceful role model for her daughter, and promptly fired you — you wanted nothing more than to crawl into a snake's den and never emerge again.
You worried constantly about your future, which seemed to grow darker with every passing day, and you stood only a single step away from declaring open war on your mother; you were convinced she had orchestrated your dismissal as Sophie's nanny. Deep down, you knew your instincts were right. The moment your dear mother learned you'd returned to Virginia, she'd undoubtedly rushed to mention to your employer exactly what an irresponsible, crazy junkie her daughter supposedly was.
And although, during those first few days after Ilia's departure, those catastrophes occupied nearly every waking thought, it took only a single photograph of him posing beside a group of fans outside the Stages Hotel — one that flashed across your Instagram feed — to awaken the guilt you'd been trying so desperately to smother.
He looked heartbreakingly sad.
The comments beneath the photo blamed exhaustion, the crushing pressure of competing for the first time since the Olympic disaster, and the weight of everyone's expectations, yet you couldn't shake the terrible feeling that you'd had a hand in that sorrow yourself.
You had been unbelievably cruel to him. And you'd done it for one reason only: beneath the carefully constructed image of a fearless, untouchable woman lurked a coward who couldn't bring herself to tell the truth.
You didn't even bother pretending otherwise anymore. You couldn't convince yourself you'd been justified, nor could you lie that none of it had affected you. It had, far more than you wanted to admit.
In a feeble attempt to ease the guilt clawing at your conscience, you decided to watch his performance at the World Championships, despite the fact that it demanded a level of divided attention bordering on impossible.
As fate would have it, precisely when the final three groups of skaters stepped onto the ice at Prague's O2 Arena, you were busy looking after Sean.
Fortunately, you were clever enough to solve that problem with minimal effort. Instead of making Sean pancakes for breakfast and forcing him through another math worksheet, you simply took him to Patrick's and his dad's music shop, stopping for hot dogs on the way — because who exactly decided that was murder for your liver? Probably some smug doctor who'd never known happiness.
Sean required remarkably little convincing. All you had to do was promise that, in exchange for keeping quiet around his parents, you'd let him have pizza for dinner (again, who decided pizza was unhealthy?) and extend his computer time by another two hours that evening.
You couldn't be entirely sure Sean wouldn't rat you out anyway, but you were putting your faith in junk food's unmatched powers of persuasion. At the moment, the kid was your only source of income, and you were gambling quite a lot by neglecting his education and dragging him all over town instead, but for Ilia — you were willing to take that risk.
God. You sounded like some hopelessly lovestruck teenager.
Except you weren't in love. You didn't even like him. You just wanted to feel a little less like an awful human being after snapping at him and calling him every name under the sun immediately after he'd gone out of his way to help you.
“This thing is so freaking long and boring,” you complained, staring blankly at the tiny screen of your phone, where the live broadcast from Prague flickered before your tired eyes. “I'm literally gonna fall asleep. At least hockey players beat the crap out of each other. They knock rivals's teeth out. These guys just... glide around the ice, jump every once in a while, fall over, and everyone still claps. I seriously don't get it.”
You sincerely hoped nobody besides Patrick and Sean had heard that. If those words ever reached figure skating Twitter, you'd end up even more cancelled than you already were for allegedly destroying Ian's and Penny's relationship.
“Then why are you even watching it?” Patrick asked.
“I'm waiting for Ilia,” you replied, irritation creeping into your voice as yet another ice resurfacing break interrupted the competition before the final twelve skaters.
You'd never actually watched an entire skating competition before and had no idea they lasted this absurdly long — more than five hours. You regretted waking up at the crack of dawn and turning on the livestream from the very first group, but you figured it was a fitting form of penance.
Besides, there was a first time for everything.
“So figure skating in general is boring, but Ilia's skating isn't?” Patrick pressed, watching you curiously from behind a shelf of classical records while absentmindedly dusting it with a feather duster.
“Yup, something like that.” You shrugged. “Bro, don’t expect too much from me. I'm just a simple viewer who doesn't know shit about figure skating.” You pointed lazily at the screen. “I see a backflip — I’m interested.”
“Right.” Patrick rolled his eyes dramatically. “Interested in the backflip. Sure.” He snorted. “So that's the only reason you're watching Ilia? Because he does backflips?”
He paused just long enough for the grin spreading across his face to become deeply concerning. “Definitely not because you've secretly got a crush on him... and because his ass looks insanely good in those costumes.”
“Whose ass looks insanely good in a costume?” Sean piped up, finally looking away from the Rubik's Cube he'd been obsessively solving.
Heat rushed straight to your face. You shot Patrick a glare cold enough to freeze hell over.
“Oh, fuck off, Pat. Worry about your own ass.” Then you pointed accusingly at Sean. “And you, you little gremlin — quit eavesdropping.” You groaned dramatically and buried your face in your hands. “Will both of you just leave me alone?”
Sean found your outrage and frustration absolutely hilarious. The Rubik's Cube had apparently lost its appeal, because for the entirety of the fifth group's skate he did nothing but heckle you, tossing snide little comments your way whenever the opportunity presented itself. You shooed him off with an absent-minded wave of your hand and told him to occupy himself with something remotely productive if he wanted any chance of playing computer games that evening. Sean dramatically lowered his head in defeat before disappearing between the towering shelves of vinyl records, leaving a trail of destruction in the wake of his sticky little hands.
You paid him no mind. Your attention remained utterly consumed by the broadcast as the men of the final group stepped onto the ice one after another, each introduced beneath the arena lights by the announcer's measured voice. The screen flashed from one skater to the next — Nika Egadze, Kevin Aymoz, Adam Siao Him Fa — and then, finally, Ilia appeared.
You shifted in your seat, and your heart immediately began hammering against your ribs. He looked focused, composed, and quietly confident, carrying himself with the effortless assurance of someone who had long since learned how to silence the deafening roar of expectation.
"So..." Patrick's voice drifted lazily through the shop. "I was thinking maybe next week we could play some Genesis at The Hideout. What d'you think?"
"Mhm," you murmured without truly hearing a single word he'd said.
The only thing that existed for you was Ilia as he glided through his warm-up laps. When he peeled off his athletic zip-up jacket, revealing the shimmering upper half of his costume beneath the arena lights, a smile escaped you before you could stop it.
Maybe the whole Viking outfit wasn't nearly as hideous as you'd insisted it was. Now that your blind, stubborn resentment had loosened its grip, you found yourself noticing more and more things about Ilia that you actually liked.
"Or Phil Collins," Patrick continued, clearly entertaining himself by teasing you while you weren't listening. "Another Day in Paradise. Or In the Air Tonight. I'll send you the bass tabs later tonight. You won't even have anything to play until halfway through the song. Plenty of time to shotgun a beer and smoke a cigarette."
"Yuppp. Sounds good," you answered absent-mindedly, biting down on your lower lip as nervousness wound itself tighter and tighter inside your chest.
The six-minute warm-up came to an end. Your nerves were already more frayed than they had ever been before walking onto any stage.
"And you're really gonna sit there and tell us you haven't fallen for him?" Patrick drawled. "You're such a liar."
That accusation, at last, pierced through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
"What?" you blinked, genuinely bewildered. You hadn't the faintest idea what had been happening around you. Your heart — and every wandering fragment of your attention — had been in Prague all along.
"This." Patrick tilted his head, fixing you with an infuriatingly knowing look. "You like Malinin, don't you?"
Entirely uninterested in Nika Egadze's skate — though you were fairly certain he was doing well — you slowly shook your head, all the while trying to murder Patrick with your eyes alone. Unfortunately, he had long since grown immune to your temperament, and intimidating him had become increasingly difficult over the years.
Besides, you couldn't actually kill him. You still needed him as your unpaid servant, your emergency wallet, and your future drummer, should you ever change your mind and decide to start another band.
If even Dean, with standards impossibly high and opinions sharper than broken glass, had recognized genuine talent in him, then perhaps the two of you really did have a future as musicians.
Provided you changed your image. And your surname.
"Did you smack that stupid, balding excuse for a head on something this morning or what?" you shot back. "Of course not. I despise him."
Not a trace of conviction accompanied the words. If anything, your answer only confirmed Patrick's suspicions. You could no longer hide your growing fondness for Ilia. Besides, you'd already betrayed yourself with the way you'd looked at him back at The Hideout. Patrick might not have been the brightest person on Earth, but he was observant, and he had an irritating talent for reading everything left unsaid.
"Right," he snorted. "And I'm Elvis Presley."
You rolled your eyes so dramatically they nearly disappeared into the back of your skull.
"As if. You wish."
Your playful sparring was shattered by a tremendous crash. The deafening clatter of vinyl records hitting the floor made you nearly drop your phone face-first onto the ground. You and Patrick whipped your heads around in perfect synchrony.
Sean was crouched between the shelves, clumsily gathering records off the floor before attempting to shove them haphazardly back onto the rack. Your gaze landed on the iconic black sleeve of, Back in Black by AC/DC clenched in his tiny hands, and your heart seized in horror.
"You dipshit, what have you done?!" Patrick barked, launching himself across the shop with all the grace of a goalkeeper making a desperate save before snatching the records away from Sean with righteous indignation.
"Hey!" you protested immediately. "Don't insult my source of income! Only I get to do that!"
Sean puffed out his chest proudly before sticking his tongue out at your drummer.
"Yeah, motherfucker. Watch who you're talking to."
A laugh burst from your lips the moment the profanity left the boy's mouth. Patrick, meanwhile, was considerably less amused. He glanced back at you over his shoulder with the expression of a man who had just identified the mastermind behind a mass homicide.
You merely offered an innocent shrug, your attention drifting back toward your phone screen, where Nika sat in the Kiss&Cry between two plush hedgehogs, waiting for his scores beneath the harsh brilliance of the arena lights.
"And you see what you've done?" Patrick returned the records to their proper places before throwing his hands into the air in theatrical despair. "You've taught a child to curse."
"And I'm proud of it," you shot back without a shred of remorse. "Besides, he would've learned sooner or later anyway. I bet every kid in his neighborhood swears like a sailor. Now both of you, shut up and get over here, Ilia's about to skate."
You beckoned them over with a lazy wave of your hand.
Patrick joined you reluctantly, while Sean had already discovered a brand-new source of entertainment: rummaging through a dusty box filled with old music magazines.
You shifted sideways to make room for Patrick beside you, and together, in rare silence, you watched Kevin's program set to Lady Gaga — which fascinated you far more than you would have expected — followed by Adam's performance.
The instant Ilia stepped onto the ice, your anxiety climbed to its highest peak, as though it were you about to perform before the thousands gathered inside Prague's arena. Without even realizing it, you grabbed Patrick's hand and squeezed hard enough to nearly snap his fingers.
"Damn," Patrick muttered, genuinely impressed. "That dude's got one hell of a fanbase."
You pressed your lips together, fighting with everything you had to suppress the smile threatening to bloom across your face. The next three minutes vanished almost before they had begun. You barely registered each of Ilia's jumps. One heartbeat blurred into the next until he struck his final pose, and the arena erupted into thunderous applause.
The moment he skated toward center ice and bowed, a shower of plush toys rained down around him — Toothless plushies, naturally, making up the overwhelming majority.
"Holy shit..." Your eyes almost sparkled as you watched him leave the ice and wrap his father in a tight embrace. "He did it."
"Well, obviously he did," Patrick replied with a grin. "He's the quad god, after all. And you, my dear..." He nudged your shoulder knowingly. "You've got the most obvious crush on him I've ever seen."
You shoved him with all your strength, nearly knocking him onto the floor.
"Shut the fuck up." You folded your arms, pretending to refocus on the broadcast. "And you'd better start practicing Keep Yourself Alive before our next gig. Roger Taylor's drumming on that track is an absolute masterclass."
Two more skaters remained after Ilia. You, however, wanted nothing more than to congratulate him immediately. Patrick talked you out of it, insisting you'd only come across as desperate. In the end, you waited another hour before finally messaging Ilia.
By then, you'd taken Sean out for ice cream at your old workplace. Carrie had already grown thoroughly sick of the sight of you and made it abundantly clear — for what felt like the hundredth time — that she had absolutely no intention of hiring you back.
Oddly enough, it didn't bother you in the slightest. You were still so overwhelmingly happy about Malinin's victory that even another rejection couldn't put a dent in your mood. You looked positively euphoric, as if someone had slipped pure sunlight straight into your bloodstream.
your_username: saw your short program
your_username: i don't know anything about scoring or any of that stuff, but you skated really well.
your_username: obvi... considering you broke your record or whatever.
your_username: anyway, good luck on Saturday. i hope you win.
None of your messages were even marked as seen, even though you'd noticed he was active. Maybe his DMs were overflowing with spam and yours had simply vanished beneath it. Or maybe he just didn't want anything to do with you anymore.
The thought settled inside you like bitter sediment at the bottom of a glass. You couldn't blame him. Instead of talking to him — of communicating like a normal adult — you had treated him horribly.
You hated how utterly fucked up you were.
The disappointment of being ghosted, however, faded faster than you'd expected.
A few hours after the short program, you found yourself sitting hunched on your bed, absentmindedly twisting the edge of your blanket between your fingers as you replayed every event of the day over and over in your mind, searching for some hidden logic that refused to reveal itself, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't quite understand why, for the past several minutes, you'd been staring into a pair of amber, feline eyes, wide and faintly frightened.
You honestly couldn't tell which one of you was more terrified.
It had been pure impulse, and you had always lived by your impulses. After Sean's parents returned and you happily entrusted him to people considerably more responsible than yourself, you met up with your aunt, and the two of you went grocery shopping together. As you were walking back toward Andrea's car, you noticed her.
A tiny ginger kitten.
She was curled into herself in the middle of an empty parking space, her ragged, rain-soaked coat clinging to her fragile body, staring up at the two of you with such heartbreaking sorrow that it stole the breath straight from your lungs. She looked homeless.
You couldn't even remember the exact moment you'd decided to pick her up. Though she weighed almost nothing, it felt as though you were lifting solid iron, your arms suddenly burdened by the astonishing weight of your own reckless decision.
And just like that, you'd adopted an abandoned cat.
Your gaze wandered across your room, submerged in soft darkness, searching for somewhere your newest companion might feel safe. You hadn't the faintest clue what kittens actually needed. You hoped the veterinarian — who, judging by Andrea's immediate warning in the car that she wasn't contributing a single cent to this venture, would undoubtedly cost you a small fortune — would explain everything tomorrow.
You could've asked Ilia. He had two cats, after all. But there was no way you were humiliating yourself even further by messaging someone who hadn't opened a single text you'd sent him that morning.
"So..." you whispered into the stillness of the night, awkwardly reaching out to stroke the kitten. She shrank away from your hand, still too wary to trust you. You narrowed your eyes. "You're not gonna scratch me... right?"
A tiny, uncertain meow answered you. You sighed. Easy enough.
Ilia had earned himself a little medal for the highest score in the short program. You, meanwhile, had somehow ended up with a cat to take care of. March, it seemed, had developed a rather peculiar talent for surprises.
