Archive of Our Own

She thought back to the first time, her mother rushing them from the train station while dodging early morning market goers as she stumbled along. She’d been distracted by enthusiastic calls from the relentless street peddlers, stomach rumbling as she eyed their steaming tteok-bokki and deep fried hotteok longingly. She’d wanted to stop and linger, but no matter how much she whined, her mother just kept pulling her endlessly forward towards what would inevitably become her destiny.

It wasn’t a particularly special setting. A crowded indoor rink with ice shavings gathering in ugly grooves along the border walls, desperately in need of resurfacing. But with her mother’s steady hand on her back, and the expanse of white in front of her, she let out an astonished gasp, body seizing in unexpected wonder.

The ice was as beautiful as she was daunting, lighting up all of Yuna’s senses. She called to Yuna, voice singing in her ears, an echo of scratchy blades, excited shrieks, and delighted laughter, but not enough to drown out the nervous beating of her heart.

Leaving her mother’s side, she ran forward eagerly, resting her mitten covered hands against the glossy, foreign surface. She wasn't yet used to the particular cold of her new surroundings, but she didn’t mind when a shiver ran through her. It felt like hello.

Her first step with skates on was a thrilling experience, and the breathless moment immediately after, falling gracelessly into a sprawled mess, somehow even more so. Lying on her back with the cold seeping in through the jacket, sweater, and scarf carefully layered together in a futile attempt to protect her from the ice’s touch, she smiled. Despite a runny nose, crisp air biting against her skin, and the beginnings of frostbite along her toes, she thought she’d found a friend.

Even then, she mused, while everything was new and she was still in rosy-cheeked awe, you’ve always been unforgiving.

The world had been unprepared for her rise to the top, dumbfounded by her unfaltering poise, the fluidity of her movements, and the crisp technique of her steady jumps. But the ice had known all along how special Yuna was. She danced with Yuna, played with her, carried her gracefully through the dips and swells of piano notes and string melodies while the world watched in fascination. She was completely enthralled by her wonderful new muse and wanted the world to know it, gifting her prizes every time they met, showing off her love with medals and titles enough to satisfy a queen.

But it wasn't long before Yuna felt herself burning out and getting tired regardless. She longed for the uncomplicated comfort of quiet and warmth, without the presence of the now familiar and constricting frost that seemed to follow her wherever she turned. She needed to take a step back, out of the spotlight, and inevitably away from the ice, who wailed in despair, as if her momentary break from competition had been a targeted attack, leaving a permanent scar shattering across its fragile exterior. She wasn't sure if she would ever be forgiven.

She thought back to the last time, after she’d long grown weary of the constant battles fought with both body and soul. The push and pull of the ice pleading for her return while her own heart and mind were in turmoil had dug into her until nothing was left but empty space, an endless pit of want aching in her bones. She had known for a long while that her secret desires would not be realized here, where they had no place to grow in the fruitless, barren cold of the rink.

She made her choice, in this place she had called home, where she won a last medal to add to her collection. A final and desperate offering, or maybe a punishment, heavy, and lacking the shine and lustre of yesteryears.

Slowly she approached her once dearest companion, letting the wintry air fill her lungs, and a sharp, cloying chill fall over her. Reaching forward, she rested a reassuring hand softly over the ice, wet glaze coating her palm as if mourning her already, weeping over her silent rejection. It felt like goodbye.

He’d heard it all before.

The best singles skater we’ve ever seen. Keep at it and you’ll conquer that new quad! Canada’s best shot at Olympic gold.

And the most cruel of them all: Patrick Chan is gracious and dignified in defeat.

He scoffed at the empty words, long gone deaf to platitudes about good sportsmanship and “believing in oneself.” He didn’t have any problems recognizing his strengths. He knew where his talents lay.

He was a real skater, he thought bitterly, a connoisseur of art on ice in its purest form. He didn’t need anyone else trying to grant him liberation from whatever imagined doubts and insecurities may have haunted him. The ice was the only one who reserved that right, and the only one he would answer to.

He’d been patient with her, refining his craft until he could gift her a picture with his blades, carving the story of his life in clearly defined, eloquent curves the way she asked. The way she used to celebrate in the form of polished gold and proud crimson, his name decorated in autumn maple. The way she would again, if only he believed enough.

Give me your love, he said, the world disappearing in a dizzying haze as he jumped, every landed quad a testament to his persevering devotion.

Do you love me? he asked, the harsh disappointment of another triple axel betrayal filling his veins, making a mockery of his efforts.

LOVE ME! he begged, digging in his edges to cut her deep, desperate for her voice to answer him like she did before. He couldn't stand her chilling silence, the oppressive cold a resounding reminder of all the ways he could disappoint her again.

I love you, he confessed, soothing with patient, gentle strokes, knees and thighs working confidently to trace delicate shapes onto her smooth surface.

Everything she’d given him he’d earned threefold, one for each World Championship gold, thinking his place in her heart was secure. He knew that the medals she generously adorned him with were physical tokens of her affection, meant to lure him in suggestively, and he would follow her every whim and command without question, wanting to realize all the dreams she laid out for them together.

He continued to pledge his faith to her, gritting his teeth while suffering from her neglect, aching and bruising from careless mistakes, the taste of hope still determinedly sweet on his tongue. After all, what were those moments of shared triumph to her, queen of wintry realms, if not a harbinger of glory atop the most illustrious of her frozen peaks?

False promises, a web of lies, and a contract broken, he realized too late.

He stumbled, catching himself clumsily while his heart stuttered in time with the broken applause and horrified gasps of the audience.

She was always a fickle mistress, and her loyalty was an illusion he’d greedily fed on, too great a price for him to pay in the end.

He walked away from her after, stone faced and paying no mind to those around him. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. He knew it was no fault of his own, of course.

It’s just that Olympic ice has always loved Yuzuru Hanyu most.

Yulia had gotten used to staring at white walls.

She could never remember all the doctors with their foreign names, strange tools, and big vocabularies, or the nurses who cycled in and out throughout the day, twittering around in fake cheer while casting looks of unsubtle pity. She didn’t even try to keep track of the injuries that kept sprouting anew anymore, stacking on top of each other until they toppled into a big piled mess she could no longer pretend to care about. Only the white walls stayed the same with every new facility, the one constant she could always count on when nothing else would come together for her.

She held still, clenching her jaw and looking straight ahead as she willed herself not to wince while the pretty nurse jostled her leg, asking for any signs of pain. To be honest, she didn’t register much of it anymore, this body no longer hers, beaten down and left to languish on hospital beds while the media went wild spreading gossip about her alleged secrets and dubious motivations for going into hiding. She had no respect for those reporters and their tabloids anyway, her truth known by no one outside these four walls that now made up her blank and colorless world.

Sometimes, irrationally, she wanted to lash out against the empty canvases surrounding her, both tormented by and desperately clinging to the way they reminded her of another white scene burned into her memories. She could still see it clearly, an endless crowd of fans rising in enthusiastic cheer, tears in their eyes as they waved proud Russian flags. And then, always, the overwhelming presence of the ice, graciously leaving frosty kisses upon the unblemished cheeks of a young girl in a red dress. Not quite innocent then, but perhaps just a touch too naïve for the pressures that would befall her. But she wouldn’t blame her failures on anything other than herself and her foolish dreams.

She’d thought she had to be careful with the ice, treating it with kindness and reverence, its fragility evident with every scratch, hole, and crack riddled across its glassy finish. But in the end, the ice remained whole, solidly in place, firm and strong where her body had failed, broken down and withered into a state unworthy to be presented back onto the rink, her once frozen benefactor no longer interested in her partnership. Somehow she’d forgotten how devious and faithless her matron could be, with her propensity for malice, always so willing to cater to a new star.

She ached constantly, ankles swollen, hips throbbing, back sore and uncomfortable, but it was her unsettled thoughts that she fought with most often. Left in this endless limbo, her traitorous mind would wander to what ifs, teasing her with childish narratives of marvelous comebacks and miraculous recoveries. But the hateful truth of reality wouldn’t allow for any of these silly scenarios to play out for long, not even in fantasies.

Crying didn’t help, and screaming only got everyone worried and worked up again. So she locked up her rage, caged in her misery, and scattered the shattered pieces of her that no longer worked into the darkest corners of her mind while she stared at the white walls. Stared, and tried not to think of the ice, and the way she once held Yulia so tenderly, showing her a glimpse of a radiant and vibrant world that would never be hers.

From as far back as he could remember, Yuzuru had always wanted to be the best. Maybe it came from having an older sister who was in every way the model child, achieving good grades in school, helping his parents around the house, and even being a perfect sibling who absolutely adored her younger brother. He admired and loved her very much, but he couldn’t help the need to match her perfection and maybe even exceed it where possible. Anything she could do, he could do better, as the saying goes.

That’s probably why the first time he encountered the ice, whispering her promises of glory and fame, concepts unfamiliar to most 4 year olds not Yuzuru Hanyu, he’d agreed to her conditions without hesitation. She only asked for his entire heart and unwavering devotion in return. These were things he knew much less about, but he liked the soft melody of her voice, the tickle of her glacial touch, and didn’t mind the small bruises that blossomed over his body after every encounter. Having a playmate who could teach him how to show off not only to his sister, but to people around the world as well only fueled the competitive flame inside of him more.

As the years passed, she made it a point to challenge him every step of the way, forcing him to prove his loyalty and commitment to her. Scraped knees, red elbows, and aching muscles became a normal side effect of her affections. And while there were dark, secret moments when Yuzuru would begin to doubt his ability to uphold his end of the deal, he felt even more that nothing else could match the rush of adrenaline and exhilarating sense of freedom he’d learned to expect from her with an insatiable need. And that was without mentioning his growing obsession with the gold she only selectively awarded to her most passionate suitors.

But just as she wanted his entire being and constantly consumed his thoughts, he wanted to possess her completely also, drawing her gaze and stealing her attention away from everyone else who was unworthy.

He’d seen how others had scorned her love eventually, unable to bear her unrelenting frost and jealous tantrums for long, and it only strengthened his desire to be her best. Yuzuru never grew bitter. Others shied away from her cold and abrasive edges, but not him, who would place his soft hands against her, letting her steal his warmth, soothing her with his silent promise of forever, his desire for her as genuine as his greed for gold.

He would make sure the grace she bestowed on him was more generous than for anyone else who dared to enter her frozen realm. He vowed to teach her how to crave for him, blades stroking against her in an addictive rhythm, desperate to impress his feelings on her, the same way he ached for the comfort of her icy embrace at the top of the podium.

Others thought him a masochist, mocking the way he made a martyr of himself, blind to her malicious tendencies and always meeting her with gentle understanding. But he knew in his heart that the violent manifestations of her insecurities were nothing but a mountain for him to conquer and overcome. And while others had given up the treacherous trek along the way, he steadfastly held on, believing in the glorious view atop her impossible peak, and delirious with the thought of the golden prize to be won.

She watched him, rising and falling spectacularly, flattered by his displays of tempestuous passion, and admiring the delicate strength of his glittering, slim figure moving effortlessly to soft piano and pounding drum beats. He would do anything to convince her of the truth of his words, prostrating himself before her to do as she pleased, believing and knowing he alone would be able to match her intensity and withstand her harsh punishment without resentment tainting his resolve.

In the end, she rewarded his perseverance, crowning him a king in Sochi, and then again in Pyeongchang.

But it was not enough. He'd promised her forever, and neither of them could truly settle for the satisfaction of past achievements when there were still more records to break and medals to win.

Again, she insisted, as he soared into the air only to crash down against her, painting his violent love across her surface with spots of perspiration. With hands curled into fists and heaving desperate, furious breaths, he scrambled up, blind to everything else but her merciless demands.

“I’ll try again. I’ll practice harder. I will be everything you ask.” Just as always.

She smiled fondly at him, allowing him to collect her shavings afterward, to cradle against bruised joints and swollen muscles, red and blue spreading across his body in ugly patches. She knew he would ignore all of his pain if it gave her pleasure to witness his renewed energy and commitment, and all she had to do was dress him in gold.