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It was time for change, he could feel it. That burning, driving need inside him.
Viktor was gearing up for his second season in the Senior division, coming in with the high of a near-total clean sweep last year. Granted, the competition was a step up from Juniors, but Viktor Nikiforov had been made for the ice in a way nobody else skating against him was. The way he floated over the ice, the full length of his hair drifting behind him, gave the illusion of an otherworldly spirit, an ethereal being more of starlight and ice than tangible flesh and blood.
People were already predicting that he’d change the face of men’s skating forever. He could feel the bonds and expectations weighing down on him, trying to bind him into one fixed thing. The tatters of his family, his coach, his rinkmates, his fans, his country. All of them wanted to pin him down to one thing, to simplify him and cut him down to less than he was. He had to step away from that. After all, he couldn’t lean on the successes of Juniors forever; why not grab the bull by the horns and make the change happen himself?
He’d chosen the music for his exhibition skate carefully. It
had
to be his exhibition; Yakov would
kill
him if his did this in a competitive skate. Most promising skater under his care or not, he had no illusions about where he’d end up. Yakov probably even had the perfect ditch to leave him in mentally bookmarked.
Viktor also knew that the grand gesture would have to wait until the end of the season, much as it made him itch to have to wait.
For the sake of his coach’s hairline, if nothing else.
--
A few days before his flight to the last major international event of the season, Viktor dropped by the seamstress to pick up his altered exhibition costume. This year, he’d been skating to a compilation of music from Disney’s “Mulan”, and his costume had been designed around the clothing of the eponymous heroine before she went off to war. Like his costume from a couple of years back, he’d played with ideas of gender, skirting the line between masculine and feminine expression while designing it. This secret last-minute change he’d had done wasn’t much, but just because it was a small change didn’t mean it couldn’t have deep implications.
--
The gold medal had felt heavy around his neck as he stood on the podium the day before, reminding him of the similar weight of cold metal that he’d be carrying with him next time he stepped into the rink. He could feel it now, pressing against his skin.
He didn’t have to go through with it. He could go out onto the ice and dance as he had before, comfortable in the same image. He could push the change off for another day. Another year.
He’d had his phone’s mobile data and internet connections turned off since the medals ceremony, afraid that he’d give the game away if he let himself so much as
look
at his social media. He’d been giving out enough little cryptic hints over the last fortnight as it was.
Viktor closed his eyes and let the applause for the skater before him flow through his body and sank into the immediacy of the moment. The balance of his blades, the pressure of his boots, the weight of his hair in a thick plait down his back.
Skating had always been easy for him it felt as natural as breathing. Sure, there were some things he had to work for, but when he set his mind to perfecting a jump or a spin or, well,
anything
, it would never take long to get what he wanted.
He never really knew where he went when the music started and the ice shone like glass under the lights. The universe narrowed to balance, speed, angles. Always checking himself, instinctively making the little corrections needed to make sure that no part of him was out of balance with the rest muscles bunching, gathering, pushing him up free from gravity’s grasp into dizzying flight. Never even touching down. Changing the weight on his blades just
so
to take himself into a spin.
Everything flowed and fitted together. He did what
felt right
, even if it wasn’t technically what Yakov was wanting him to do.
His feet led him into what was supposed to be a triple-double combination. He turned it into a quad-double. He knew he could make it, so why not? The landing wasn’t as clean as he would have liked, but his balance wasn’t lost.
The music was coming to a climax. His feet moved with an energy to match, gold blades flashing underneath him and carrying him to the inevitable end.
Viktor Nikiforov knelt on the ice.
To
the ice.
The lack of music was almost deafening. His mortal needs were beginning to make themselves known again. It was funny, really. It was as if he didn’t even need to breathe, not in this stretch without time. All that existed was the scrape of metal on ice.
The commentator’s voice boomed. The words rushed through him without comprehension. Applause rippled through the crowds. All eyes were on him.
He slipped one hand under his sleeve and gripped the warmed metal.
He didn’t have to do this, but was there ever any choice?
Eyed closed. He lifted the heavy weight of his hair above the nape of his neck.
He felt, more than heard, the scissors’ twin blades slicing through.