Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Felix’s heart soars when the audience showers his first jump with applause, a smile tugging at his lips. Gliding on the ice, picking up speed for his next element, he can almost taste it. The gold. The victory.

He has come second after the short program, but the point difference is marginal. Claude is only one point ahead of him. He needs a season's best, sure, but he has reached more before and he always peaks at the World Championships, the Worlds, the final competition of the season.

If not now, then when? This is not just about taking the gold. This is about setting himself up as the favorite for the Olympics.

Gliding. Leaping. Spinning.

He has done it a thousand times, again and again, through grueling practice sessions and under intense pressure during competitions. When his muscles scream, he smiles, falls in character with the music, enthralls the crowd with the composition of his movements.

The air is electric, the anticipation of the audience awaiting his next jump. The outside three-turn comes easy, ingrained through countless repetitions. The next moment he is up in the air, his arms above him and when his blade hits the ice, the applause rises, erupts with the swing of his leg into a split as he rasps for air. Thrill courses through his veins, exhilaration driving him.

His breathing is heavy when he jumps into his next spin. His hand reaches for his free foot, rising to his height, body the perfect form of a teardrop. The blade cuts into his palm with his grasp so tight on the top of the podium.

It will be sweet to stand there.

But some things… some things are not meant to be.

His foot strikes against the ice, vaults him high into the air. High. Higher-

The world turns upside down. He gasps after the air escaping his lungs, whines at the throb in his ankle. He pushes against the board, pushes himself, flops down, pushes up again. Up and up and onto his feet. He has to go on, has to win. But can he still?

He leaves the ice, a rain of flowers and gifts behind him. Sagging onto the bench, he waits for his scores, barely feeling his old man’s hand on his shoulder when he stares at the screen.

Nothing explains what has happened. How his routine fell apart at its seams, how the crowd carried him through the rest of his program when his breath was heavy and ragged, when his mind was screaming to stop. Claude darts him a smile void of any mischief, only apprehension. His legs still shake as his fingers dig into his knees. His chest still aches from the crashes.

The score slowly fades out of the screen. The moderator announces the next one to skate.

Claude von Riegan.

He will come in first place.

And position himself as the favorite for Olympic gold.

Instead of sitting down with the top three he passes them by. It’s the first in a long time he does so. He faintly sees Dedue, the frown on his forehead, glances past Dimitri who should have never been there. He barely registers his old man’s voice calling after him. Dimitri runs after him, but Felix pulls away, rushes past reporters shoving microphones into his face when he wants to leave, just wants to disappear. He snaps at a pesky one, winces when the reporter jerks away as if burnt.

It’s not the time to be a sore loser. Not the time to be weak. Don’t feed the media. The media who latches onto conflict; at sensations which aren’t there. They’ve ruined many but won’t ruin him. One bad skate won’t blow him out of the waters. He’s still in the game.

“I’ll be back.” The cameras of the reporters glare at him. Calm down. What will calm them down? This was just one misstep. He’s always succeeded so far. “This was not my standard. There is no excuse.”

He swallows and braces himself against the wall as a rain of questions suffocates him. They want to know why. Why out of all people Felix fails a year before the Olympics. Does he feel ready? Is it the pressure? Is it an injury? Who will represent Faerghus in men’s single skating at the Olympics?

He flinches. One more question added to his mind which still cuts through the mess, the tangle of thoughts. It’s supposed to be him. To be Ashe and Felix who represent Faerghus and if it had to be then also Dimitri, but first of all Ashe and Felix.

His eyes dart to a monitor. Claude is already awaiting his score, a cocky grin broad on his lips as he waves a plush.

A personal best. A new world record. The crowd stands up to cheer while everything falls silent around him.

Felix quickly raises a hand to his face, coughs, covers the quiver of his lips. Claude broke the standing world record by 3.5 points. He succeeded where Felix faltered. He’ll never make room for Felix to stand at the top.

The placements fade in.

Claude in 1st.
Dedue in 2nd.
Dimitri in 3rd.

Ashe places 11th.

Felix places 18th overall.

A simple summation and he knows: Faerghus has lost one spot. Only two athletes will represent Faerghus for men’s single skating at the Olympics.

***

“You can’t be reckless.” Felix walks next to Ashe. It’s two weeks until Worlds and his old man decided Ashe cannot perform his quadruple jumps – the four revolutions in the air which earn the most points. Not with the injury he sustained during practice. The doctor advised against him performing at all, but Ashe insisted on participating. Not because he doesn’t understand the danger but because he needs the exposure, these rare moments under the scrutiny of the judges to establish himself, to make himself known.

He isn’t reckless, Felix knows. He is determined to make his way to the Olympics just like himself. Determined in the certainty of his steps, in the way he balls his hands into fists and in the steely glance in his eyes which erases his usual softness.

“I will compete,” Ashe told Rodrigue and earned a shake of said man’s head. A heavy sigh and they started to work out the compromise. It was after practice. They stood in the hallway of their rink; their rinkmates walked past them, rushing to the comfort of their homes.

“No quads.” His old man crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Two.”

“None or you stay at home.”

“One!” Ashe pleas, “Just-”

“Young man, this is not negotiable. I will cancel your flight ticket.”

Ashe’s jaw clenched in a jerky motion, not quite grinding his teeth yet, but it was a near thing. Without quads he might as well stay home. The way figure skating progressed, a quad toe and quad salchow are the minimum to survive in men’s.

Felix stepped between Ashe and Rodrigue. “He’ll need his quads.”

“He needs to rest.” His old man refused to look him into the eye. “Focus on quality; impress them with your artistry. Then come back with your quads and deliver a whole package next season.” He turned around, grabbed the handle of the door and stepped outside.

They all know it isn’t as easy. Scores are supposed to grade the performance right in front of the judges’ eyes, but nothing exists in isolation; nothing is evaluated without context. If Ashe drops in his world ranking, if his starting position is in an earlier group, judges will be more tentative with their scores, less generous and more critical. His old man knows but sacrifices Ashe's standing the year before the Olympics anyway… because health comes first. Health comes first, alright.

They walk through downtown on their way to buy toiletries for Worlds. Ashe still hasn’t answered so Felix glances at the windows of the shops they pass. There’s a new one, selling Dagdan snacks and milk tea. A kid walks out with a steamed bun in his hand. When he bites into it, ribbons of steam rise up. He’ll have to try the shop out and check whether it tastes the way his grandpa does them. A smile tugs at Felix’s lips before he turns back to Ashe.

“I know.” Ashe knits his brows. It isn’t easy to take this risk, to give up on strong elements when he clearly can do them but not with his injury. “I’m not reckless…” He screws his eyes shut and sighs. “I’m taking care of the injury and it is healing well. I just-” He presses his lips together. “I do trust you and Dimitri…”

Felix huffs. Dimitri isn’t worth the trust. “Don’t worry about the spots. We’ll have two no matter what. You’ll go to the Olympics.”

Ashe frowns. “We’re three.”

“No." Ashe is wrong. "It’s only you and me.”

***

Two spots are enough for Faerghus. The country used to be a powerhouse when it comes to figure skating, however, in recent years, it’s been difficult to raise talent and competition is not sleeping. With Claude representing Almyra and Dedue representing Duscur, it is clear that the traditional three Fodlanian countries are not the center of the figure skating world anymore. Countries rise, and countries fall. It is a cycle, the stages of evolution. No country can stay at the top forever, and Faerghus, too, has to yield. Therefore, two spots are enough. Two spots, one for Ashe, one for Felix.

Because Dimitri won’t go to the Olympics. Because he doesn’t care. He called him to tell him that he gave up. That he is too weak to carry on.

Felix thrashes in his sleep. Dreams of bursts of colors, blurred figures, distant steps and a ringing, a ringing of the phone at his home when the phone still had a cable to connect it to its station and the reliable ringing at 8:45 in the evening-

A knock at his door. Felix's eyes crack open, grabs the front of his shirt- No. It's the illusion mesh of his costume beneath his fingers. He is still wearing the costume of his free program. It is damp, clinging to his skin. He should have taken it off before he slept.

The knocking grows more insistent and… of course, it’s Dimitri’s voice calling him on the other side.

Felix groans, coughs, swallows through the dryness in his mouth. He squints at the clock.

22:03

This fool must have been standing outside for hours now.

“Go away!” He croaks out, cursing at the hoarseness. Something irritates his eyes. He screws them shut. It’s the lenses; he’s slept with his contact lenses and now they’re burning. Did he forget to take them out? He heaves his legs out of bed, two blocks of lead. The bruises throb, finally clawing for his attention. Where is the water? He fumbles his hand around, still sitting on the bed. He glances at the fridge thrumming beneath the table, the ancient lamp next to the hideous wing chair. Damn, his old man has to stop being so stingy with their accommodation. He presses a hand against his side.

“I’ve been standing here for three hours. The security has already checked me twice. I believe I deserve the right to check whether you are alright.”

Three hours?! Doesn’t he have anything better to do? He rakes a hand over his face, smears over a mess of mascara and rouge. Disgusting. He glares at his blackened fingertips. No way Dimitri will see him like this. “You deserve nothing!”

This finally silences Dimitri. Except it doesn’t because Dimitri is Dimitri, and this fool starts rattling his door. Ready to break in by force with the force of a boar.

“What the fuck! Stop it!”

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Fuck, it’s security.

In a few steps, Felix has stumbled to the door, pulling it open. His hand darts out to pull Dimitri in and slam the door shut with a bang. Right in front of the security personnel’s nose.

His finger drills into Dimitri’s chest. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Dimitri doesn’t answer immediately. He’s been asked a question but he just glances over to his bed, glances over Felix’s face instead. He shouldn’t look at him with this pathetic face, with brows drooped low with worry. Worry that has kept him hostage in front of Felix’s door.

He scowls deeper, but Dimitri catches himself and tilts his head in an apologetic smile. “You must be hungry. I thought we could eat dinner together.”

He holds up two pizza boxes. The smell of cheese and tomatoes immediately hit Felix like a wall, and he wrinkles his nose, glaring at the boxes. Together. Dimitri should have already eaten with their sports club. His old man invited all of them after the competition.

He takes the pizzas anyway. The box feels damp against his fingers. Cold, obviously, but it’s fine. Cold pizza isn’t bad. “I haven’t eaten yet… I… forgot.” It’s true enough. “I’ll take this. You can leave now.”

“Ah, I haven’t eaten yet either! Or… I have a bit but I’m still not full.”

“Huh? Why? Was my old man too stingy to get you proper dinner?” As if.

“Oh, that’s not quite the case.” Dimitri waves with his hands. “I wasn’t hungry when they left for dinner and decided not to join. Also, I wanted to play some games with you.”

“Keep your pity to yourself.” Dimitri’s random key smashing can’t be called gaming. He sucks at it; anyone can tell he doesn’t enjoy it. Felix lets himself fall onto his bed, opening the upper pizza box. Only two slices of a four cheese pizza greet him from their cardboard grave. His stomach growls at the sight. That can’t be right. He tries his luck with the second box. A prosciutto pizza. One of the slices is already gone, too. “You… give me the leftovers of your food?” Is that the extent of his care? Sure, Dimitri stood outside for hours and… was apparently hungry… But what the fuck?

Dimitri tilts his head, an abashed smile on his lips. “I’ll just eat one more slice. Please, have the rest.” He sits down next to Felix, hand reaching for one of the four cheeses slices, but Felix slaps that glutton’s hand away. First, he ate almost everything and then he still thinks he can choose what he wants? Next, he wants Felix to feed him. He shoves the prosciutto pizza onto Dimitri’s lap, starting with the four cheese pizza himself.

They chat for a while, about anything but the free skate - Felix’s free skate. There is nothing Felix has to say about his performance anyway. Dimitri saw all of it, knows all of it. It was just one misstep. No big deal. Dozens of competitions, and he never placed off the podium. If one mishap could derail his career, he wouldn’t be where he is now. Instead, they talk about others. About his parents who will visit Glenn for New Year, Dedue who will visit his family in Duscur.

Felix has taken out his contacts. It’s sometimes nice to not be able to see everything clearly, to let the mind fill in the gaps, to pretend the slight frown on Dimitri’s face isn’t there. He pulls his knees closer while Dimitri’s hand brushes against his bruises, warm hands on his sides applying a soothing ointment.

“The press conference was quite exhausting,” Dimitri says. “Claude kept the journalists entertained but Dedue and I, especially, felt out of place.”

Felix bites his lip.

Of course. Dimitri was at the winner’s press conference. He won his first international medal at a major event. Of course, everyone wants to know his goals, his plans. The reporters must love him, him and his handsome face, his pleasant smile which draws dimples on his cheeks while Felix always scowls into the cameras. They must be glad it was Dimitri who medalled and Felix who… failed.

“You won bronze,” he says. Dimitri’s hand twitches against his bruise.

It stings.

“You don’t belong here,” is what Felix told him years ago. It still holds true. Dimitri wasn’t supposed to move to Colan. To switch coaches and let his old man be his mentor. He wasn’t supposed to compete here, wasn’t supposed to win a medal. What did he look like with the medal in his hand? How deep did he have to bow to let the medal be placed around his neck?

He tugs at Dimitri’s wrist and pulls his hand away from his bruise. The ointment starts to burn on his skin; it burns nearly as much as his face.

His hand travels to his face, traces the line under his eye. Makeup chafes like grime against his fingertips; it’s smeared all over his features. Distorted. Disgusting. False.

His hand moves on to the birthmark on his neck.

Dimitri shouldn’t see him like this. Not Dimitri out of all the people. “Can you leave?” he says, faces away. His voice is too small, too pathetic in his own ears.

There is silence between them. The mattress dips when Dimitri shifts but he doesn’t stand up. And Felix doesn’t want to turn around to check why he won’t leave him alone. Why he still sits there when Felix feels tired and disgusting in his sweaty costume which he should have taken off long ago, but Dimitri just stays.

Felix’s jaw clenches. Tries not to snarl because Dimitri doesn’t deserve it.

Because, of course, it had to be him who stands on the podium.

“I… Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Dimitri stands in the door frame, feet scraping over the ground. He glances at Felix, glances at his hands. “Sleep well,” he finally says, forces a smile to his lips. The smile doesn’t want to be there and Felix doesn’t want it to be there, either, as its only purpose is to soothe Felix when this is not what he wants.

“Congratulations on your first medal,” he presses out, “You’ve proved me wrong.” Dimitri’s smile drops before the door clicks shut.

The gala passes. And the banquet. Too many people swarm these places so Felix sits out both, keeps to himself and scours through the news. Almyran news outlets have already cast their nets, pulled it in and presented their big catch. As if it is a given now that Claude will win. And considering his track record, he most certainly is on track to win the Olympics, undeterred by any pressure, any obstacles.

The praise Claude earns is not the problem. The problem is all those questions which are raised at Felix. When a reporter asks why Felix completely fell apart. When a journalist writes the question: Will Felix make a comeback or fall from grace?

There are thousands of questions directed at him and not directed at him at all; directed at the fans, at those who follow the sports. A pretense to ask Felix when he has no chance to answer. When all he can do is to shut off his phone, ignore the haughty voices.

Shrouded in the hues of dawn, they part for the airport hours later. Dimitri still has sleep lingering in the corner of his eyes. He has spent the night in Felix’s hotel room, leaving the banquet early. They laid on Felix’s bed, played one video game after another and Dimitri kept on losing and only stopped when his misery became unbearable so that Felix had to turn off the TV.

A yawn fills seconds as they drive through the quiet of the early morning.

Except, his old man doesn’t want to remain quiet. He has to be annoying instead.

“Felix.” He turns his head, looking over his shoulders from his front seat, opens his mouth. He stills and sighs, looks at him as if he is still five years old, still too naïve. “A few journalists and reporters have asked me about your performance. I declined most of them but couldn’t decline all of them. It was a tiring season. There has been a lot of pressure on you. I assured them you will be back next season... with all you have. When we’re back, we can analyze what has happened, assess what we need to work on, but more importantly, you need to rest.” His old man added a heavy pause to emphasize his point. His old man is wrong; rest won’t help Felix to understand what went wrong. He needs to analyze what happened as soon as he can and correct his mistakes.

It is only when he nods, his old man turns to Dimitri. “It was a long season for both of you. Take at least a moon off. Only light exercises. You hear me? We will make a strategic plan on how we’re going to approach the next season but if I see any of you two at the rink-!” His voice is low – a miserable attempt at being threatening when he is too soft to follow up on his words.

There is no need to pay them any mind.

***

His old man is a humble man. Pleasant some would say but spineless in Felix’s eyes.

So different from Lambert that Felix sometimes wonders why Dimitri takes after Rodrigue rather than his own father. When Dimitri and Rodrigue share the same faint smile, the same crinkles around their eyes, both prone to say ‘please’ and ‘thanks’ when no such pleasantries are needed.

Lambert on the other hand is a man who puffs out his chest, sets his hands against his hips and beams whenever Felix and his family travel to Fhirdiad for a visit.

Ever since he was four, Felix knew the Blaiddyds have Olympic medals in their home. Nobody had to tell him because they stand in their vitrine, shining for themselves, pretty illustrations engraved into precious metal.

The proud eagle for the Olympic Games in Enbarr, the graceful deer for Derdriu, the determined bear for the Games in Sreng.

Lambert smiles at him when he presses his face against the vitrine, nudging him away from the glass which is so fogged that he can’t even see the medals anymore. He opens the vitrine and asks him which one his favorite is and Felix points at the deer. It’s a pretty silver. Leicester’s branding is always golden and warm; the gold medal must have been beautiful, but the cold sheen of the silver medal provides the antlers with elegance as they grow like ice crystals on the crescent moon shaped medal. Felix’s fingers brush over the relief.

“The Nutcracker.” Lambert smiles. “I was 27.” He places the medal around Felix’s neck, brushing at the seams of his shirt to smooth the wrinkles. “Well, look at you. I see a new star born in the firmament.”

“Stop giving him funny ideas.” His father walks in while Felix ogles the medal from both sides. XVII is carved into the silver. It doesn’t look like Faerghun language. His father crouches down and reaches one hand out. “This isn’t for you, Fe. Can you give it back to Uncle Lambert, please?”

It is, though. Uncle Lambert handed it to him himself. He is clearly in the right. There is no harm in carrying the medal. He obviously won’t toss it or create scratches on its surface, but his father knits his brows, presses his lips into a thin line.

Years later Felix believes it is jealousy which distorted his father’s face. After all, his father, too, was an Olympian years ago. He placed the medal back into Uncle Lambert’s hands, gaze dropping to the ground as if it was his fault to touch something so precious.

More years down the line, Glenn searches for the cookie jar in the shelf of their living room. Felix is ten. Ever since he lost his first milk tooth, he has no interest in sweets because it causes his teeth to fall quicker and he is still traumatized by his mother looping a thread around his wobbly tooth and binding the other end to the handle of their kitchen door.

“Be strong, Fe. It’ll be over in a second,” she said as she slammed the door shut.

It’s the first time Felix realizes that parents like to believe they have their children’s best interest in mind but have long forgotten what it means to be a little child. Needless to say, Felix cries as his tooth dangles at the door. He will protect the rest of his milk teeth at all cost.

Thus, his disdain for anything sweet is born.

“Glenn, I don’t want cookies.” He holds the stool which trembles under his brother’s feet while Zoltan circles his legs, meowing as she nudges her head against his calves. Glenn tries to reach for the top of the shelf. Only his toes touch the stool, his right foot wobbling around that Felix has to jerk his face away to not get hit.

“No, I think I got something!” That something scratches over the wood-

Zoltan hisses when a tin box clangs onto the ground, jumping open and medals roll out of their enclosure. She snatches one of them, pawing at a bronze one.

But Felix stares at the golden one. The one with the words ‘XVI Olympic Winter Games’ carved into it – a lion roars proudly in its center.

***

Two weeks after Worlds Felix’s parents depart for Dagda.

Dimitri accompanies them to the airport while Felix doesn’t bother to see them off. They’ll be back soon enough, and it is only now before New Year that his rink mates finally leave for their homes.

Coming back from Worlds, he was met with questioning glances whilst nobody dared to ask him directly.

Chatter dies when he enters the changing room, dies when he enters the rink. Everyone has questions – questions about him but not for him. They don’t ask. Out of consideration one might think, but in truth they duck their head, averting their eyes as if caught in the act.

For the holidays, his rink mates leave and make space for him to take the ice.

He laces his boots as tight as he can, curses that they are soon going to break down. Time passes too fast when he needs every second to train.

At this point, no one is at the rink anymore.

It’s easier when he has the rink for himself. There are no sympathetic glances, no unwanted attention. There are only his blades, himself, and the repetitions of movements, drawing white lines onto the canvas of ice.

Bending his knees in fluid up and down motions, his blade glides over the ice in swift steps. The ice is perfect for training; no carvings scar it except for his own. It’s smooth beneath his blades, easy to accelerate and easy to chase dizzying paces. The air is crisp, almost burns in his lungs. When he halts, the ticking of the clock grows louder, dictating the cadence of his breaths. The next time he breathes out, he takes two long strides, turns to skate backwards and picks up speed.

For a while, there is only the sound of the scratch of his blades against the ice. The snow that is shred when he moves a foot against the direction of his movement to slow down. He glides from one side to the other, in circles, in figure eights. When he goes into a curve, the edges of his blades are deep; the rhythm, the repetition are like clockwork.

His spins are rapid, his spirals steady.

He takes another breath, readies his posture.

He picks up speed again.

A three-turn and-

He never takes off.

A shudder permeates his breath. Just one attempt. There are so many more which he has, so many chances he can take. Has to take because he needs his quad to go to the Olympics. Stopping at the boards, he closes his eyes. Relax. It’s easy. The speed he needs, the step sequence leading into the jump. From the lean of his body before the takeoff to the exact moment the boot picks into the ice to lift off. It’s just this break of a second, this piece in the sequence.

All the hours of burning eyes analyzing recordings, the strain of watching others do it and himself do it better-

He inhales again. The slight lean in the air, the moment his legs unwrap when he is back on the ice.

I can do it.

Taking a deep breath, he pushes himself away from the board.

Concentrate on the form, visualize the jump.

I can do it.

He leans forwards, picks his toe-

The fall.

“Felix!”

Gold flashes by in the blink of an eye; the boards are too close. He squeezes his eyes shut. Don’t panic. Don’t panic! The jump can be saved; it has to be saved. Pull yourself together and land!

His blade connects with the ice, his ankle wrestles, strains to keep him up. He has to keep fighting, has to stay on his feet; he has to save at least this one single jump.

His knee gives in, caves under the force and he winces, clutching his ankle.

“Why?” His fist swings at the ice, halts before it hits. It’s not the ice which is at fault. It’s his own. He can jump. He really can...

“-jure yourself. You need to rest more. Please, take care of yourself.”

“Shut up!” He bristles. “I will land it.”

The clock ticks.

Time marches forward relentlessly. His heavy breath cannot catch up with the seconds which tick and tick and tick. And won’t stop ticking. And Dimitri just stands there trying to convince him to stop training when it is the time that should, please, stop.

Without a quad he stands no chance.

And even so, he landed none since Worlds.

He skates over to the boards and steps off the ice, winces at the dull pain on his hip. A bruise which will bloom blue and purple before fading again. When Dimitri walks over with a frown plastered over his face, he glowers back. “Stop making that face.”

Dimitri’s gaze is steady. Nothing changes in the way he looks at him and he doesn’t answer right away. He opens his mouth and closes it again, settles for a smile in the end. He should save the smile for someone who needs it.

“Ingrid and Sylvain will arrive soon. You should get ready so we can fetch them at the train station.”

Too considerate.

There is the lump again, heavy in his throat. He tries to swallow, forces himself to look away, steps away with his head held high. He doesn’t need Dimitri’s consideration.

***

Felix and Dimitri decide to pick up skating as a sport when they are five. Felix’s father is the first one to know of their plan to start skating together. The two of them ran into the living room of the Fraldarius home in Colan, both panting from the quick sprint down the stairs, unable to hide their smiles. Felix reaches up so his father can pick him up, and Rodrigue obliges, lifting him and spinning him around.

His father laughs when Felix laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle and he says, “You can’t, Fe.”

It’s not always easy to understand his father. It’s not easy to understand adults. They speak in the context of their experiences which children do not have. Sometimes Zoltan is easier to understand than his father, even though she doesn’t speak human.

However, despite his father’s qualms, they pick up the sport – Dimitri in Fhirdiad and Felix in Colan. They skate together whenever their families visit each other but it isn’t enough, too rare to do all the things they want to do together: to talk, to skate, to laugh.

Felix lies in his bed, waiting for Dimitri to return from getting some water. He blinks into the darkness with heavy eyelids. It’s late. Dimitri takes way too long to get water and they still have so much to talk about. He has to stay awake.

Hm…

There are murmurs outside, too quiet to understand. The click of doors. Steps approach his bed and Dimitri crawls under his blanket which he wraps around him, kicking at the corner so it covers them both.

“Why did it take you so long?” He tries to suppress a yawn.

“Mh.” Dimitri adjusts his position. “I talked to Glenn.”

“Hmm.” He shudders when the yawn escapes. “He’ll help us with practice.” He smiles. “We’ll skate together.”

Dimitri doesn’t answer, and Felix slips away into sleep.

***

Felix’s parents return from Dagda the week after New Year. Their luggage brims with food as if Faerghus is a barren land without the promise of anything to eat.

“Your grandmother insisted these will help you with nerves and make you smarter.” His old man points at sacks of dried fruits and… Felix can’t really name the rest.

Hopefully, he won’t get assigned to Cup of Khingai in Dagda for his Grand Prix Qualifier. Their storage is full of ingredients which still last from their last trip and the one before.

Dimitri helps with unpacking the suitcases, well-behaved as he is.

He won’t be needed here, so he marches down the hallway to the stairs.

“You haven’t been training, have you?” The old man looks up from the sea of plastic bags.

Felix halts, hand gripping the balusters. He is clearly not talking to Dimitri. He’d never insinuate that Dimitri doesn’t heed his words. Well, he isn’t wrong to do so.

“I trained.” Felix looks over his shoulder to glance at his old man. Slouched shoulders and sunken eyes. An Olympic gold medalist who cannot carry the weight of his gold with pride. What can he do to help Felix?

He turns and leaves.

It’s less than a year until the Olympics. Less than a year to work out his choreography, his condition and most importantly his jumps. The first time he managed a quadruple jump, finishing all four revolutions in the air, his heart beat so loud that he couldn’t hear the rasps of his own breath anymore. Ever since then, he landed quad toes, quad salchows and quad flips. Just before the previous season he started to work on the quad loop and now this: All gone.

On some days he runs at the beach, the sandy ground demanding focus on the stability of his core and efficiency of his muscles. The salty sea air clears his lungs while seagulls indulge in their mating season which is honestly annoying, especially when Dimitri runs next to him pointing at two seagulls engaging in their balancing act and Dimitri doesn’t know what they’re doing despite living here for almost four years – Felix is certainly not going to explain, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Once his old man is back, Felix talks him into constructing his training regime. They spend hours on ice, hours in the gym. They schedule the summer camp in Blue Sea Moon – Felix tries to convince his father to let him stay in Colan, but he insists it’s for the better if he joins. Though, it is clearly better for him to stay in Colan, to have the empty rink for himself when all his rinkmates go with his old man. He could be alone and have his peace, away from him, from Dimitri and from Ashe – Ashe who is recovering from his injury; Ashe who has to go to the Olympics because despite his injuries he placed high, higher than Felix. He deserves to go, and when they meet at the rink, Felix can’t look him into the eye because Ashe has the same expression like when he was told he will not perform his quads: the clench of his jaw, the steel in his eyes.

Three times a week he takes ballet classes to train his flexibility, his interpretation of music and the expressiveness of his gestures and his face. He grits his teeth when he forces himself into a split. His eyes narrow, and he glares at the mirror, at the man who can’t land his jumps.

His morning routine grows longer when he stands in the bathroom, screwing his eyes shut, trying to moisten them, grinding away the soreness. His hand glides over the shelf, knocks over a bottle of cleansing foam and grabs foundation and concealer. With careful strokes he covers the dark rings, adds a bit color to liven up his cheeks.

He looks acceptable, he thinks.

And when he walks into the kitchen, he fixes his old man with an assertive stare. “I’ll land it today.”

The wry smile mocks him.

On other days he sits in his room, Zoltan on his lap, curling into a purring ball while he brushes her fur. His free hand holds his phone, playing the same four minutes to him, again and again.

The first two jumps vault him into the air as if gravity doesn’t exist. The arch is exactly the way it should be, spanning three meters or more. Going by the applause the crowd agrees, nearly drowning out the music. Everything went so well, from his steps to his spin; it’s the way he performed it in practice, but then after his Biellmann his focus just… slips.

What is it? The fatigue after a long season? The pressure of being Faerghus’ number one? Felix’s face crumples. No.

There’s a knock at his door. A gentle thud-thud. Dimitri peers into the room, eyes settling on the bed, on Felix. He knits his brows. “It’s time for dinner. Do you want me to bring you something?”

Felix presses his lips together. Heat creeps into his face and he looks away. “No... Leave.”

For a while only Zoltan’s purring permeates the room. Moments later the door clicks shut.

He exhales a shaky breath. Zoltan paws at his chest, mewls at his face.

“I’m fine,” he says, returning to stroke her fur. He fumbles with his phone again, switching to another video.

Dimitri’s free skate starts to play; the one which earned him bronze. He carries the slow tune with his powerful jumps right when singing sets in, when the violins underline the melody. When he glides over the ice with his arms raised to his back like wings, the feathers stitched to his costume tremble in the wind.

He’s beautiful. Tragic, but beautiful, and he came a long way.

When Dimitri entered the senior circuit, he didn’t even manage to reach the minimum score to participate at the World Championships. He stood no chance with his programs devoid of any quads. Artistry without technical finesse to back it up is a vain waste of time.

Felix puts his phone aside and wriggles into his sheets with Zoltan crawling up to his chest, warming it when he otherwise feels cold.

He shouldn’t have told Ashe two spots are enough. It… might be him who will take the fall. Dimitri is a beautiful skater with massive jumps and imposing posture. The skating federation has always recognized his talent. The media loves him.

It was a fool’s act. It’s just… he never wanted Dimitri to skate like this.

***

Felix still remembers how he leaves the Heroes Stadium after Skate Adrestia during his second senior season almost two years ago. Silver in his hand, he eyes the medal with the rough carvings. Even the bouquet looks wilted. Somehow events in Gronder always end up cheap.

As he passes down the path to the metro, familiar voices come from the greenfield next to the stadium. When he turns, Claude stands in front of Dimitri. A stark contrast – the winner of the event while Dimitri finished in the bottom half. He raises a brow. What kind of business does Claude have with Dimitri?

They look odd next to each other with Dimitri towering over Claude. Dimitri must have had another growth spurt. They kinda look like a lion and a kitty. Huh, isn’t Claude about his own height? Do he and Dimitri also look so ridiculous next to each other?

Claude grabs Dimitri’s wrist and Dimitri pauses to look at him.

Felix’s chest constricts. Since when are they this close? This seems serious. He probably shouldn’t-

“Everyone can see, you don’t belong here. Your skate is mediocre and boring. I feel nothing looking at it.”

The air is thick, difficult to inhale. Did Claude spout these words? At Dimitri?

He told Dimitri that his attitude will offend someone but for Claude to direct these words at Dimitri… It is crass.

It must hurt.

Claude isn’t even finished; he goes on and Dimitri becomes smaller with every word that hits him.

Felix bites his lower lip. His jaw aches from the tension, but he forces his feet to move. He told Dimitri. Told him that he doesn’t belong, that he has to take this seriously or he will insult the years of efforts his competition pours into the sport.

It serves him right to get scolded by an Olympian.

But why does it sting in his own chest?

***

The nice thing about Colan beach is that tourists don’t flock here for vacation. Even in Garland Moon when the backyard of Faerghus starts to finally warm, anyone with a bit of common sense chooses to travel to Adrestia or Leicester for a beach vacation where actual summer graces the waters.

The bad thing about Colan beaches is once the seagulls’ mating season ends, their breeding season starts and it might be due to the scowl edged into Felix’s features or the glare in his eyes that these birds deem him as a threat to their babies, but they constantly caw at him and nosedive towards him just to halt a few meters before him, cawing more, piercing his ears.

They can’t shut up.

He’s jogging next to Ashe who pants next to him, back bent forward, feet dragging over the sand. It’s the first time they’ve jogged together; Ashe asked the evening before, suddenly popping a ‘Hey Felix! Let’s run together tomorrow!🙃 ’ into his messages.

He should have refused. Ashe still carries the stern glare, and Felix is sure: it is directed at him.

It’s only been half an hour and Ashe sounds like a dying engine. When they reach a pier, Felix comes to a halt. Ashe needs to improve his stamina. It’s pathetic how he braces his hands against his knees, gasping for air. Ashe grabs the front of his shirt to wipe over his face before he stands up, looks him straight into his eyes.

The glare again. Felix takes a step back; his knee caves for the break of a second.

Ashe’s eyes are burning, blazing.

He looks alive, so much more than Felix has felt in the past few days or weeks, maybe even moons. Felix’s fingertips travel to his cheek, to the dip below his eyes, gracing over sensitive skin. He is tired and Ashe’s glare weighs him down.

“Your makeup is melting.” Ashe straightens his back. His brows are furrowed into a knitted line. “You’re exhausted.”

Exhausted. He turns his face away. It’s a pretense. He is; he really is exhausted but this is not what Ashe should concern himself with. It isn’t what Ashe wants to talk about. He glares at him the way he glared at his old man because Felix wronged him.

He has to go.

“You’re exhausted.” He turns his back to Ashe, ignoring how his vision swims, ignoring the way his step sways. “I’ll continue running.”

“I don’t blame you for what happened at Worlds,” Ashe grabs his arm. “But I blame you for dealing with things alone!”

“Fuck off! What do you know about what I deal with?!”

His arm torn back; he gasps for air. The chill hitting his lungs crushes him. How could he? How could he spit venom at Ashe? They stare at each other with nasty words hanging between them while the heat in his chest freezes to ice.

Ashe’s jaw clenches, and his teeth grind this time, and Felix wants to leave.

He has no right to hurt Ashe when he was too arrogant. When he wagered their one chance to go to the Olympics.

“I- I’m sorry.” He presses his lips together, forcing down the trembling. He shouldn’t lash out, shouldn’t hurt Ashe.

Ashe reaches out to him, but Felix jerks away. Again.

“Felix, you…” He hesitates. Because Felix made a mistake and doesn’t own it.

“You don’t need to worry about your Olympic spot.” It’s not him who will stay behind. “I haven’t landed a single quad since Worlds.”

He swallows.

“I won’t make the Olympic team.”

Thick silence separates them – Ashe on one side, Felix on the other.

After all those years, Dimitri has taken Claude’s words to heart. He didn’t listen to Felix – Dimitri didn’t care. But when Claude confronted him, he changed; he owned his talent and worked on his skills. He rose through the ranks and look at him now: A king.

Dimitri deserves the spot.

Felix doesn’t.

His chest tightens. There is this tension again. The tension that has been keeping him awake for most of his nights, unrelenting, not allowing him to sleep. And right at this moment, he felt like it was about to swallow him whole.

I want to go.

Ashe’s arms wind around him, pull him into an embrace. It is warm and tight, and Ashe’s shoulders start to shake when Ashe shouldn’t cry. It isn’t his fault that it will only be him and Dimitri who will go to the Games in Almyra. Felix can still stand in the audience and force out a cheer. Felix can still try to be a friend. But Ashe’s arms cling to him; the shaking mounts; he rubs circles at Felix’s back. Felix wants to say something, give him comfort and he opens his mouth, but his breath hitches.

Ah.

It’s not Ashe who is crying.

***

During the junior circuit, it is Claude who spurs Felix on to increase his technical repertoire. Ever since their novice days they’ve often competed at the same competitions. If it was his father’s choice, Felix would be an artistic skater with minimal technical content, but with Claude snatching gold medals right in front of Felix’s nose, he can’t resist the temptation of learning quads.

“You’re teaching Dedue the quad sal, why not me?” He frowns at his father. “I can do it, too.”

His father grimaces. “Quads require a lot of stamina. You still need to improve your condition.”

“My condition is great!”

“After the last competition you choked your Luna tissue box while gasping like grandpa after he ran up the stairs. You’re not ready.”

Felix purses his lips. His tissue box does look a little maltreated. Though, it’s old; he had this Sailor Moon-themed black cat tissue box ever since he’s six. Sure, he’s still a bit sorry that Luna’s eye popped out from the choking. His father had to show him how to stitch it back so he can do it himself next time.

Of course, there won’t be a next time.

“I’ll improve my condition.” He peers at his father who just sighs and shakes his head.

Over time his condition does improve, and he adds one quad after another to his collection of jumps. However, this is not enough. Claude is always a step ahead, raising the bar one element at a time. If it’s not a jump, it’s a new transition or an improvement on his spins.

They meet at competitions; they exchange embraces and pull each other onto the podium, raising their medals to smile at the cameras.

Once Dedue’s growth spurt ends and he stabilizes his jumps, he joins them on the podium, always in changing orders – but it’s truly only Dedue and Felix changing because Claude’s position at the top is a constant until he switches to the senior circuit where he tastes defeat for the first time.

Until he places third at the Olympic Games in Morfis.

“It was a dumpster fire!” Claude flails with his hand; he almost hits the screen of his computer.

He sits in his home in Almyra, sharing his Olympic experience with Felix, Ashe and Dedue who are sleeping over at Felix’s place. The three of them stare at the screen with Ashe squished in the middle like tuna in a sandwich.

“During practice everything was so amazing and smooth but a few days later before the actual competition everyone was crying. I cried, too.” Voice breathy, distant. Sometimes his voice comes before his face moves on the screen. Claude wipes at the corner of his eye. “Emotions were running high. Mercedes walked from one athlete to another to comfort them while her brother was fighting his own nerves in the corner of the hallway. I’ve never seen Catherine losing her shit like this. She was screeching. She was so tense; it’s a miracle she didn’t snap at Shamir when she snuck up on her. The coaches tried to calm us down but somehow we all spiraled.” He shakes his head. “Our nerves were shot. I- sorry. I felt so sick before my short program.”

Felix never thought that fragile is an adjective he could attribute to Claude but there he is: Hand clasped over his eyes, mouth turned downwards. He can only hope the trembling of his lips is because of their bad connection.

Ashe and Dedue’s faces are pale. Felix probably doesn’t look any better based on the nausea coiling in his chest. The three of them were talking about how amazing it must be that Claude is now an Olympic medalist, looking forward to the call, and then he unpacks this story instead.

They saw how across the disciplines several top athletes missed their jumps. Fell when they have landed these jumps in dozens of competitions before.

“The next Games will be different.” Claude glances up again. A glint now adorns his eyes. “Next time it will be us. We will take the stage. I want the Games in Almyra to be the one where we all… where all of us skate at our best.” He presses his lips together, knitting his brows. It’s so different from the self-assured smile he usually carries, the one where he lifts the left corner of his mouth, flashing a bit of teeth while his eyes narrow like a lucky cat.

“Please,” Claude says.

Felix’s hands are clammy, but even so he nods alongside Ashe and Dedue. There is no way they can say no.

“We’ll be there,” Dedue says, and Claude smiles. His mouth doesn’t do what it usually does, but his eyes still narrow when the smile lifts his cheeks.

***

Felix stops plastering his face with make-up after Ashe finds him out. It itches in the heat and summer will only get warmer. His parents frown when they see him; they haven’t seen his bare face since they came back from Dagda.

His mother cooks soup for him with the ingredients his grandparents stuffed into their luggage. It simmers in the slow cooker for hours.

His old man talks him into taking walks together at the beach, bare feet in sand; the sand grains scrub their soles. It’s cool when they dig their feet deep into the sand. Sometimes his old man brings a box along, filled with watermelon, and they eat it while they walk – mostly silent. Sometimes his old man talks.

Dimitri doesn’t change much. He tried to convince him to go to the cinemas, restaurants or go hiking before. He does the same still.

Though, Ashe… Well, Ashe makes it his personal mission to safeguard Felix’s sleep. When he isn’t crashing Felix’s place, he invites him over to his and Dedue’s flat where the two of them cook a feast – any other word wouldn’t do all the effort justice. There is always seafood, a meat dish, greens and vegetables.

“It’s fine!” Ashe beams. “I love leftovers.”

Who loves leftovers? Felix grimaces but digs in anyway. Ashe and Dedue bonded over food. Felix would be a fool to not eat.

When they lie down to rest, Ashe watches over him. When he wakes up again, Ashe tells him to continue sleeping as if it is easy to continue once someone has cracked open their eyes. He even goes to the length of hiding his phone to hinder him from absorbing blue light like a sponge.

They have so many sleepovers that it’s natural to ask whether they’ll share a room at the summer camp, too, but apparently, it’s only Felix who thinks so.

Ashe blinks at him. “With me? Not Dimitri?”

Ugh. “No.” He shakes his head.

“Mh…” Ashe turns to Dedue who frowns so slightly that one will miss it if they don’t know him.

In the end Dedue shrugs his shoulder. “I can share a room with Dimitri.”

It’s settled then. Even though it's unnecessary that they act like this is a transaction. As if Dimitri is supposed to share a room with Felix. They haven’t shared one in years.

When they all come together at the summer camp Felix tries his best to get in as much practice as he can. It doesn’t solely mean to skate on the ice but to also analyze, strategize and think ahead. All the athletes which come here to train display their skills and hone their techniques. There is a lot to gain from watching and watching is something that Felix is still capable of. The failures of his own training regime don’t allow for arrogance about his own skill anyway. It would even be misguided.

There is much to learn, be it Mercedes and Emile’s silky skating skills, which sound like a whisper on the ice, advanced even for ice dancers like them, or the precise centering of Lysithea’s spin as if she was strung on a silver thread. Even Claude, as annoying as he is, has much to offer. His trump card has to be his poker face: The ability to make split second decisions when things don’t go his way without the judges’ or the audience’s notice. When he’s unable to get the rotation of his jump under control he knows precisely where to mend a combination jump. It’s a skill difficult to replicate, but can be emulated by planning ahead, by detailing out all the failure scenarios ahead of time instead of during the program. At least that’s possible when the programs stand and the choreography lays before him.

But Felix still needs to make a decision on his music. And Manuela keeps bothering him to make a choice.

At the camp, they all live under one roof. Certain things nearly become a reflex, like his groan which follows the knocking at his door, which is followed by the “Hey, Felix! I know you’re in there!”, announcing Sylvain. His so-called friends drag him into town in their spare time where pesky fans loom in dodgy alleys and jump at Claude whenever possible.

Felix is only the support character in this charade, the NPC allowing for the real star to shine. The person B whose problems don’t matter.

At least, he doesn’t look like a zombie anymore. He has Ashe to thank for this.

“Are you fine?” Dimitri asks him when they are back at the camp. When they stand in front of Felix and Ashe’s room.

Felix’s hand is on the door handle. He pauses. This question lingered too many times in the air, asked by his mother, by Seteth and too many times by Dimitri. Even reporters ask this question to then fabricate lies. There are so many questions they could ask. Why does it have to be this one? He presses the handle down and leaves Dimitri alone in the hallway.

His old man keeps on prattling as they walk over to the rink a few days later. Something about finally making a decision on the music he wants to use for his routines so Manuela can start working on the choreography or she’ll make a decision for him.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. His old man finally shuts up, pushes the door and holds it open for Felix to enter. He grabs the handle and sighs at the sight of fellow athletes scurrying over the ice. Whatever. Finally, it’s time for train-

Claude flies.

Felix’s eyes widen.

The height and the distance are unmistakably his. It’s a massive jump. And for the split of a second when Claude whirls through the air, his contours blur; his features yield.

Blue hair, earthen eyes, lithe arms blossoming like petals. A landing so graceful, a swan cannot hope-

Claude crashes onto the ice, slithers across the surface. A meter followed by another and another. An endless scratch over the ice, and Felix’s lungs constrict.

Dimitri stands there, silent in his shock. He stares at Claude with arms extended and he gasps as if it was him who just knocked onto the unyielding ice.

Claude props himself up. He clearly doesn’t have the energy to when pain distorts his face. Still, he musters a wry smile and has the gall to laugh. To laugh. Claude will jump again, and he will land. He jumps, and he lands, and he is a winner.

He won long ago.

Felix slams the door shut. He slaps away his old man’s hand.

It’s not fair.

When Dimitri and Claude meet – at the summer camp or at competitions – they skate together, and they fall. But they stand up again and continue and catch each other to carry on. It’s the reason why Dimitri managed to grow, to rise in the ranks. Claude used to spur Felix on, but now he takes Dimitri’s hand. Embraces him when they reach the podium together like at Worlds.

And Felix stands far away, feet on the ground, watching from the sidelines.

Eyes glare back at him. He has no right to interfere with what they do, want to do, can do.

Dimitri’s gaze meets his. His brows are drawn together. Concern or maybe worry. Feelings Felix never wanted from Dimitri.

He storms out.

He barricades himself in his room, burying his face in the plushy head of his Luna tissue box. Its left eye is loose, threatening to fall off.

Ashe brings him leftovers from the dinner buffet. He tells him that he heard what happened, that it isn’t their intention to upset him, that Dimitri wants to talk to him.

“We talked,” Felix says.

When Ashe frowns at him, he adds, “I’m fine. Really. Go see Dedue.” He even forces a smile to his face, or he hopes that is what his muscles conjure.

Sometimes hiding in his room isn't enough.

Seteth, the owner of the hostel, has offered him shelter ever since he was a little kid. He read fables to him when he was younger, when his parents just brought him along before he was even a skater himself. Often Seteth would take care of his own work, organize the room assignments of his guests, and handle the delivery of supplies. He would take calls or talk to guests through the window separating the office from the hallway. Felix preferred to hole himself up below the desk at the low table, drawing a kitty, or just lying on the mattress hidden beneath the counter, staring at the fluorescent stars glued to the underside of the counter. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Flayn.

As he grows older, he still hides away in the office too frequently than what is truly acceptable, but safe spaces are rare to come by and this is still a refuge whenever he needs one at the camp.

“Your fellow athletes,” Seteth says, “have different views from you. Different perspectives and different experiences.”

“I know.” Felix cuts an apple into slices, twisting the ribbons of skin into roses. He is sitting on the mattress, legs hidden beneath the low table. “I…” He has no right to get mad at Claude and Dimitri. He fixes his eyes on his hand. The knife circles around the apple, slicing off thin pieces. All he wants is to get back on track, to go to the Olympics.

The carelessness which others display is not a luxury he can have, and he knows he cannot deny them theirs.

A warm hand presses against his shoulder and squeezes him lightly. “Take my words as you prefer. But from a retired athlete to a young one… It is not a bad thing to see other people’s joy and to wish it for oneself. Especially since I know you deserve it, too.”

“You say I’m jealous.”

“As I said. Take my words the way you like.”

Felix looks up from his work, glances to the former ice dancer. A warm smile curls the corners of his lips. A fatherly glint lights his eyes. What does it mean for a former Olympian to say such a thing? He puts down the knife. “I… really want to win.”

“You will.”

A moment passes.

“I will,” he repeats. “Thank you,” he says next.

There is another squeeze and Seteth lets go. He goes back to his stool at the counter to pick up his work at the computer. Felix goes back to carving the apple, working with his hands instead of his legs for a change. A few songs play from the radio station Seteth has tuned in. They don’t sound too bad but not exactly usable for skating music.

Once several apple roses are growing on his plate, he figures he has carved enough of them. He places the plate next to Seteth and leaves the office.

***

As children Felix and Dimitri often sneak out of their homes. When the house is dormant – maybe an occasional snore ruptures through closed doors – they tiptoe down the staircase, giggle when they step through the front door.

On their way to a frozen lake, they share an apple while the cold bites their hands. Neighbors wave at them. The baker in the cobbled alleyway presses a freshly baked cinnamon roll into their reddened hands.

The moment they step on the ice, the cold becomes their friend. They glide over the uneven surface, sometimes stumble over a hunk of ice. But they pick each other up and skate, and they take each other’s hands. Dimitri’s hand is warm. Steady. Safe. Their breaths paint white clouds, while red paints their cheeks.

“Together,” Felix whispers.

Dimitri glimpses at him. “Promise,” he says.

Dimitri breaks their promise. And when he steps onto the ice at Worlds, a wistful smile on his lips with eyes set at a faraway place, Felix again thinks: You don’t belong here.

***

Choosing a song is difficult as it is. Choosing one for the Olympic season is vastly more complex. Should he recycle one of his successful programs? The ones which earned him high scores? Or should he mix things up? Bring in some fresh air, a challenge for himself and for the judges. But is the Olympic season really the time for challenges? Is he in any state for such?

Every morning he listens through dozens of playlists. He waits till Ashe leaves their room and then scurries through a bunch of suggestions by Manuela, by his parents and friends. A war horse won’t do – music literally everyone else is skating to. He won’t do that. Just four years ago, there were ten Black Swan programs across the four disciplines, a sheer ridiculous number for one season. Can’t Manuela stop trying to shove Moulin Rouge or Carmen up his ass?

With time marching on, it’s not exactly easier to choose music. He sits in his and Ashe’s room, glasses on his nose, scrolling through playlists, headphones blasting him with music non-stop. It’s evening but still bright outside. Finally deciding on the music would be such a great way to end the day.

Did his old man seriously suggest the Phantom of the Opera? Thank the Goddess, he didn’t try to suggest to him the music of his own Olympic skates. Even skating to Sailor Moon songs, the way he did as a 9-year-old, would be a better option.

Actually, no, never mind. Annette would totally go ham with the costume. Just no.

Speaking of the devil, his phone vibrates, Annette’s name lighting up for a second, disappearing the next. He frowns. What could she want from him at this time of the day? He swipes his screen open.

Hey, what about this song for your free? 😆

Oh. Her taste in music usually tends to be decent. Her self-sung songs even better. Unfortunately, she never allowed him to skate to those - at least not officially. He hasn’t managed to convince her yet that him skating to her live singing would be the ultimate exhibition program, but he will get there.

He connects his headphones to his phone, sighs when the first few notes reach his ear, soothing his mind almost instantly. It’s a calm melody, melancholic in nature but not too dramatic. Something hopeful in the occasional lighter tones, speckled over the whole song.

Yes, this is a good one! He closes his eyes. A jump will go at this accent, a spin to unravel with the crescendo. An Ina Bauer will suit the tune captured in a long vibrato. This piece of music offers so many cues for Manuela to work with. Quickly, he shuts down his laptop and changes into his training outfit; it’s never too late for another training session.

The rink is empty at this time. When he turns on the light, the ice is clear, untarnished and free of any scratches. He connects his phone to speakers to play Annette’s music.

Stepping onto the ice is like opening the door to his home. Within seconds the web of his strides spans the whole rink. He crouches down deep like a tiger. His fingertips scrape over the ice. When he arches his back, his arms lifted above his head, everything becomes lighter, spinning to the melody as the world grows hazy around him.

Going through the motions, again and again. The monotony of the movements is a constant in the fast-paced reality. Years of training eclipse in the Olympics. It’s been his dream for way too long and the end spurt is just a heartbeat away.

It’s their dream.

He doesn’t leave the rink with his jumps back, hasn’t landed a quad, hasn’t even tried. But he landed his triples, crisp and pristine. His jumps will come back, have to come back. There is a dream to chase. He presses his lips together to hide a smile from himself.

The sun tickles him awake next morning. Steps echo in the hallway. He darts around, finding the bed opposite of him empty; Ashe is already gone. It’s been a while since he slept in, a while since Ashe didn’t need to chastise him anymore.

When he enters the dining hall, it is nearly empty. The sun can get unbearably intense around noon, especially for Faerghun fellows. So, it’s only natural that most athletes try to get their workout done in the early morning hours. However, the dining hall isn’t completely empty. His parents sit at a table, skimming through papers. Felix steps closer. Data on their students, apparently. His mother’s face lights up when she lifts her head from the sheets, gifting him a smile which he returns despite himself.

Quickly, he grabs a few breakfast items from the buffet, two slices of bread, some scrambled egg and bacon. The cheese which Dimitri really likes- Wait. He puts it back and scowls. He pours himself some tea instead.

His old man puts the papers aside when Felix sits down, clasping his hands together and putting on his usual serious expression which he mistakes for a caring-father-expression. Felix huffs in place of a greeting and spreads the egg and bacon on his bread, munches on his food, drowns it with a sip of his tea.

His old man clears his throat. “I hope you had a good rest.”

“I did.”

His old man’s eyebrows shoot up to the ceiling, earning a jab from his wife. “Oh? That’s great! I mean… It’s important you rest well!”

They chat a bit about Felix’s training, the next steps he should take. His dad sighs when he goes through his different students, counting their weaknesses and strengths. Ashe will need to work more on his condition, he has enough stamina for the short but when it comes to the long, he loses his edge towards the end. It’s true. That time they ran at the beach, Ashe was way too out of breath considering the short jog. Leonie on the other hand needs to focus more on her flexibility. Her spins could look nicer, her cantilever cleaner. And Dimitri… “He is working on his quad salchow. His quad toe is fairly stable. He hits it eight out of ten times.”

Felix frowns. “That’s it?” That can’t be enough. Even among the ladies some can jump more. Leonie told him the other day that Edelgard can jump a quad lutz with a harness.

“The height he gets on his jumps is phenomenal,” his mother chips in as if that can redeem all his other flaws. She pushes a sheet of paper over the table. “He has to hone the tools he has in his repertoire and maximizing his GOE is the best bet.” Written down are the stats of Dimitri’s jump. His quad toe might be about five centimeters taller than his. About ten centimeters wider, too, maybe. Damnit. “You delay your rotation but overall, your rotation is faster. The time you spend in the air is less.”

It’s the technical controller speaking. Assessing elements as they come. Checking whether a jump was underrotated, if a takeoff used the wrong edge; nothing evades her eyes. No split second of prerotation nor Glenn trying to steal cookies from their hidden cookie jar on top of the shelf in their living room. His father always said she used to be ruthless, downgrading his jumps when he lands exactly a quarter short of full four rotations and deducting points when his step sequence was executed too sloppily.

“She made me a better skater,” he said. “When we made our relationship public it was a near scandal. People said she turned a blind eye to my mistakes, but it only takes a minute to see that I got my worst scores all at the competitions where she was in the panel.” His mother had a very smug grin on her face while her husband reiterated that story.

She always provides him with valuable feedback, points out errors in his jumping technique, how to accelerate the speed of his spin, praises the bend of his knee upon landing a jump. It helps him to focus on what needs improvement and see where his strengths lie. The quality of his technique is in great part a result of her constant guidance.

“Ma... Old man.” Felix looks up, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “I found a song for my free.”

“Oh!” His mother raises a brow, leaning forward over the table to get a glimpse of the title flashing up on the screen. Felix presses the play button.

“That’s-” His father starts, widening his eyes. Nothing comes out of his mouth. What’s wrong with him? Felix glances over to his mother. What’s her-

Her expression is nothing but elation, a bit terrifying to be exact.

“Oh, Felix, this is so cute of you.”

Heh?

He blinks. “Cute?” The piece isn’t cute. It’s a bit sad actually. She’s probably getting old… Sentimental or something.

His father lets his shoulder hang, frowns at Felix’s phone which is still playing the song. “Felix, you have a day off today. Dimitri, too. You should spend it together.”

What? “No, I’ll train.” Finally, he’s having a good day!

“No, you won’t,” his mother says. “I think you and Dimitri should spend time together.”

“No, we don’t need to.”

“You do.” Her voice drops. Her words are final, not allowing any opposition. It’s so annoying when she is certain that she has her son’s best interest in mind even though she’s wrong.

“He should train his salchow.”

“The salchow isn’t important to him.”

Felix shoots a glare at his mother which she returns, unimpressed. Of course the salchow is not important to him. He doesn’t give a damn about the sport. Gave up everything he established in Fhirdiad to run to Colan.

But his parents don’t care. They greeted him in their home with open arms as if he was their own child.

His mother smiles now, soft and so warm. It’s still unfair how Dimitri gave up everything, gave up on him, but he can’t just explode on his mother. Instead, he fixes his gaze on his phone.

His old man clears his throat again.

Right. He’s still there.

“Dimitri is training at the gym. You can go and tell him that you two are off for the rest of the day.”

Typical parents. Completely ignoring their child’s wishes. With a scowl, he pushes himself up from his seat, snaps a ‘Bye’ and leaves. Maybe he should barricade himself in his room; Annette will surely be up for a video chat. Or maybe he’ll go to the woods to scream. That might help with all the frustration everyone induces in him. He shakes his head. None of these will do. If he has nothing better to do, he might as well go to town to get a needle and thread to fix Luna’s eye.

He turns on his heels to stalk off, getting on the bus which is waiting for people who want to drive down the mountain. The bus is empty except for him and the driver. Thank the Goddess. He immediately puts on his headphones once he flops onto a seat. His eyes are drawn outside the window, chin leaning on his hand.

The seat dips next to him. What’s wrong with people not getting the concept of personal space? Why would someone take the seat next to him in an otherwise completely empty bus? He glances over.

It’s fucking Claude.

His eyes jump back to the window, fixing on the trash can outside.

His headphones disappear. Felix whips around to glare at the culprit.

“Funny meeting you here!”

“There’s only this bus to town.” He tries to snatch his headphones back, but Claude won’t let him.

“You usually train at this hour. Run in the woods, right?” He grins. “What are you up to?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “Must be really important business if you skip training.”

“It is. How about you mind your own business and give me back my headphones?”

Claude just fixes him with a stare, lips pulled into a disapproving line. “Here I thought we could have some nice conversation. You know?” He throws his headphones back anyways. “From one gold favorite to another.”

There’s only one gold favorite. He grits his teeth. Lashing out is not an option, especially not on rivals. Ashe didn’t deserve it. And Claude… Yeah. Too many scandals already went down in history and that’s not what he wants to be remembered by. “Just stop it.”

He doesn’t. He keeps on rambling when Felix has no way to escape. The bus has set in motion, driving down the mountain, trapping them together for a thirty-minute ride through the supposedly idyllic mountains of Garreg Mach.

Felix doesn’t bother to reply, barely listens when Claude berates him about how his training is not working out. He doesn’t need to act so smug about it and can consider himself lucky that Felix actually has a good day, or his hand would do meaner things than just occasionally tremble.

“Last time I participated at the Olympics… It was horrible.”

Felix tenses. “I know.” Claude barely made the age cut to participate. Back then he was one of the youngest athletes at the whole Games while Felix was still competing on the junior level. The way everything panned out, his way to the podium wasn’t as glorious as he wished.

Claude glances at him from the corner of his eyes. He looks comfortable, the way he leans into his seat not caring about his posture while Felix’s muscles strain. “Do you also know what you agreed to after the Games?”

Of course he does. Ashe and Dedue are on their best way to keep their promise but Felix? His hands ball into fists. Is saying no an option? Pretending he forgot? He averts his gaze. “I remember.”

Claude shifts next to him. “Great! It’s no fun to medal when everyone is having a shit day. I want to win when everyone’s at their best.”

Felix snorts. All the setup to say something this cheesy? This cocky? “I’ll beat you.” Someone has to get him off his high horse.

But Claude smiles a toothy grin, the one which is his trademark, and Felix bites his lip.

“You know what? You should train with Dimitri. He can help you.”

For fuck’s sake. “He can’t even help himself.”

“Nah. That’s not true. He’s in a better shape than you.”

Felix’s fingers drill into the armrest. Whose fault is that? “He doesn’t even care about winning.”

“Is winning everything for you?” Claude grimaces, glancing at his lap. “Do you even enjoy skating?”

“I’m not here for philosophical questions.”

Claude flashes him a weak smile. “Figures.”

He keeps on talking even when they arrive in town. At some point he even brings up the beach and how he can’t wait to visit them in Colan. Apparently, Dimitri has invited him to visit them some time after the Olympics next year and his traitor of an old man happily agreed to host him. There is so much better stuff to do than seeing Claude’s visage after whatever will transpire at the winter games.

Claude drags him to several shops to pick up stuff he needs. A new towel, bandages, a scissor, a light bulb. Felix doesn’t bother to ask why he needs this crap and tries to figure out how he can make a smooth exit instead, though he does grab the needle and thread on the way. By the time they stand at a Srengi food stall chomping on pelmeni – their lunch before they return – it becomes clear he was too naïve.

Claude never intended to let him leave, grabbed his arm and dragged him along like a rag doll. Whenever Felix tried to escape, Claude found a reason for him to stay. At this point Felix’s face strains from constantly scowling.

“I’ll show you around when you come. You, Dedue and Ashe.”

Felix presses his lips together, finishes the dumplings in his mouth. “That’s unnecessary.”

During the ride back Claude luckily remains silent most of the time. Only occasionally, he nudges Felix to show him a post on his social media feed, one about an ice show Cyril is participating at, another one about the song Claude has chosen for his short - ‘Send in the Clowns’ by Sondheim.

“Because I want you to be there!” He winks. He must think he’s really funny here. Lucky him that Felix is having a good day even if the level of goodness has already dropped below the gutter.

When they get off the bus Dimitri stands there, facing the other direction, phone in hand, pressed against his ear. Felix turns on his heel, but Claude grabs his arm.

“Oh, there’s Dimitri!” he says as if he doesn’t exactly know that Felix saw him.

Said man turns around, waves at them and puts away his phone.

“Felix! Claude.” Dimitri walks over and turns to Felix. “I’ve been looking for you. Your mother sent me a message. I… We’re off today. But I see you’re spending time with Claude?”

“Huh? Don’t be ridiculous. We happened to take the same bus. I’m not going to spend more time with him.”

“Ouch.” Claude places a hand over his heart. “You’re lucky Dimitri acts as your PR manager with that mean tongue of yours.”

Dimitri frowns. “PR manager? I wished I had someone who handles my interviews. They always turn out… pitiful.”

“Yeah, the stuff you stammered together at Worlds wasn’t exactly the brightest thing you ever said… But that’s not what I’m talking about. Anyway. I’ll leave you two be.” Claude throws Felix a wink and scrams away.

“I’m also leaving.” Felix raises a hand to wave goodbye-

“Wait!” Dimitri grabs his wrist. Tight.

Felix clicks his tongue. Jerks back and bristles. Glares at Dimitri because the day started well for once, but everyone decided to get on his nerves when all he wants is peace. Just a bit of peace when he finally has chosen his music, finally has something to look forward to in the next season.

“I apologize. It’s just. I’d like to talk.” Dimitri’s face contorts. “About many things.”

Many things. He’s done with talking today, with his parents, with Claude. Talking is exhausting; it’s tiring and it’s difficult.

“We talked enough,” he says. They talked in words and in actions.

“We talked. Yes. But I want to understand.”

Felix looks up into Dimitri’s eyes. A plea in the crease between his brows. The corners of Dimitri’s mouth drop. A pull in his chest.

Understanding. To understand goes beyond the mere exchange of words; it gets to the bottom of the words we choose to express ourselves. Felix’s cheeks warm. It’s too intimate.

“Don’t say such a thing in broad daylight,” he breathes. There’s probably nobody who would pry, nobody who would dare to, but still. “We can talk tomorrow.”

“You’ve been pushing me away the past few moons. I insist we talk today.” Dimitri steps into his space. Too close. “Now to be exact.”

“You have no right.”

“I care about you just as much as Annette and Ashe. Maybe even more.” He shifts. “Please, Felix.”

“Not here!” Heat rushes to his face. The afternoon sun starts to feel hot, stings on his face. His hand traces over his cheek. “I. You. They’re different.”

“How so?”

“They just are!”

Dimitri throws him a look. A glint in his eyes. “This means I am special?”

“How can you say that?” It’s not just the summer heat burning his cheeks. He grabs Dimitri’s arm. “Stop spending time with Claude and Sylvain!”

Dimitri chuckles, covers his mouth with his hand as he does so. “Sure, if I can spend time with you instead? How about we go for a walk?”

“Ugh. Fine.”

This time Dimitri won, but it won’t happen again. They take the path leading into the forest, their steps falling into one rhythm so familiar that Felix nearly trips, nudging at a pebble with the tip of his shoe to keep his feet busy and in an unsteady pace which Dimitri can’t imitate.

The canopy of leaves shades them, preventing the sun from burning down on them. No matter how cool the mountains feel due to the altitude, the milder temperatures are treacherous. The sun is still intense up here, burning him nearly every summer if he isn’t careful.

They pass rocks and caves and some rabbits even scamper by.

It’s hard to tell how much time passes. Time filled with silence instead of the things Dimitri has to say, wanted to say before. Things Felix most likely doesn’t want to talk about, not anymore, not again.

“You’re doing the sal now,” he starts when the silence becomes too bothersome. Thinking about Dimitri always feels a little odd, especially when he is right next to him. Thinking about skating is barely an alternative… when Dimitri was the reason he picked up the sport.

Dimitri offers him a surprised glance, a short look up to the crowns of the trees in thoughts. The sun glitters through the gaps between the leaves, fluttering, shining waves onto Dimitri’s golden hair which falls back, out of his face.

Felix looks away, glances at the moss growing on the right side of the trees when Dimitri’s features become too dazzling. It’s easier to look at plants marking their domain.

“Indeed, Rodrigue suggested working on the quad salchow. I must say, it’s quite some effort to finish four revolutions without the assistance of a toe pick. Edge jumps really don’t feel the most comfortable to me. To be honest, I considered trying a quad lutz instead. Toe jumps just feel so much easier. I know it’s not easy, but Claude has kindly offered-”

Claude again.

They’re just close friends and Claude isn’t a bad person, really isn’t. But still… Why will Dimitri learn from Claude and not from him? Why didn’t he even ask? But when should he have asked? They haven’t seen each other ever since he saw the two of them fooling around together the other day. When he stormed out of the rink and even then… he can’t jump.

“I’ll help you with your sal,” he says.

Dimitri looks at him. In a way which Felix doesn’t quite understand. Probably irritated that Felix’s words don’t connect to his, draw a new line from where he wants to start, but Dimitri never shows irritation or anger or upset, always taking a step back. He smiles and thanks him when Felix deserves no gratitude.

A stone sits in his stomach, deep and heavy, trying to pull him down. It has been sitting there ever since Worlds; every time he sits in his room, watching his free skate. Heavier when he watches Dimitri’s. It’s the reason he cannot defy gravity. The reason his jumps turn into falls.

“Are you afraid of falling?”

Felix turns to him, eyes wide because he didn’t expect this question. “No,” he says, shakier than he wants. Dimitri doesn’t look at him, he still looks up to the crowns of the trees. His eyes are soft.

“Falling scares me.” A whimsical smile draws Dimitri’s lips. “It scares me a lot.”

“I know.” Felix says, Dimitri has told him before. “It shouldn’t.”

Falling is part of skating. Over time the pain grows dull.

“I hate to see you fall,” Dimitri says.

“Is that it?” Felix shifts. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Dimitri is a fool. Everyone falls. Him, Dimitri, Claude, Marianne. They all fall and stand up again.

“Yes. It is.” It really shouldn’t be. “I wanted to apologize about the other day, too. It wasn’t considerate. Claude and I will both be more cautious”

“You-” Felix looks up again, clenching his jaw. “Stop being such a people pleaser! I hate it. Do whatever you want.” Heat coils in his chest.

“I’m sorry.” Dimitri turns away. His shoulders are hunched. He makes himself smaller than he is. “It’s just. I didn’t want to see Claude fall and… I don’t want to see you fall either.”

“Just don’t watch me skate then.”

“That- That’s hardly what I mean!”

Felix snorts. Of course it isn’t. But what else can he do? “You can’t land my jumps for me. When I’m on the ice, I’m alone. We’re all alone. Before you worry about me, worry about yourself.” He gives Dimitri a glance and really tries not to glare. “That’s all you can do.”

Dimitri doesn’t answer, rather follows the faint trail through the thicket which starts to clear. There’s not much he can retort with. It’s the truth of single skating. Everyone is on their own when they step onto the ice.

Maybe that was all Dimitri had to say; maybe this was enough. Maybe he can turn around and leave.

A pond lies at the end of the trail, glittering with the late afternoon sun shining through the greenery. It’s a befitting end to their little walk, a little highlight to the repetitive sight of trees and stones and moss.

“Cool.” He kicks a pebble into the pond. A plop. “Let’s head back.”

“No.” Dimitri’s hand holds onto Felix’s wrist. He waves at the stones beside the pond. “Let’s… let’s stay here.”

“No.”

“Let’s skate together.”

The world comes to a standstill, quiets down while Felix’s heart thunders in his ears. Not even his breath which he holds dares to disturb the silence. Slowly, he raises his gaze to meet Dimitri’s.

When was the last time he saw him, really saw him? The specks of light falling through the leaves onto his cheekbones. The dimples which form with just the slightest smile.

His chest warms and his heart skips.

A familiar beat, a trusted rhythm. His fingertips against his pulse, gracing his birthmark.

With all the sincerity Felix doesn’t deserve, Dimitri looks at him. Strokes with his thumb over the back of Felix’s hand.

We don’t fall forever. Every fall ends.

Dimitri steps closer, and Felix lets him.

“I won’t let you fall.”