Work Text:
What is there in the end?
He loops around the rink, breath misted. The same chilled air that was deemed safer for a child’s lungs. He recalls his mother’s frown, the crease between her brows. Let’s get him moving, she has said. Maybe it will help. Maybe what a breathless child needs is to become one with the wind.
Triple loop to start. A humble jump, three times he turns, easy, easy. A child could do it.
The air is crisp and sweet. Strange how sweet it is, when on ice he often sweats blood and bitterness. Alone on an empty lake. Light outside, dark outside. Sometimes people (people!) hang tight to his every move, sometimes not even himself is present. But the air is soft, and sweet, if he takes the time to notice it.
Triple axel. His favorite. AAA etched on the back of a gift his teacher gave (she had ruffled his hair too).
Mid-jump is quiet. Funny how he has to throw himself into motion to seek stillness. The world smears into a blur. The buzz under his skin quietens. He always feels the most present here. Centered. His core pulled tight, heart slamming blood, lungs full and burning. He feels lit aflame. Purified almost. Just his heart and his lungs and him. How simple.
Quad salchow. Four rotations now, knee bent deep to absorb the impact. Once a white whale, now every fifteen years old with rings in their eyes has tried it.
It has gotten so loud and so quiet. People fly to him, pray for him, weep for him. They shout across the rink in his language. Thank you, you’ve worked hard! Thank you, we love you! Out of necessity he learned to tune it out, and now there is none, he skates in rinks that echo of empty seats. It’s his turn to lean forward, to listen for them. They’re still there, despite everything, just further away, praying, crying (you’ve worked hard!), writing in love love love.
His stroking is gaining speed now, gaining power. What comes next will need more than what he has. Half a rotation demands from him the strength of a warrior.
What is there in the end? He is past glory, past hunger, past fear. Still he remains. His blood sings a song he doesn’t quite understand. His heart pumps a familiar yet new rhythm. He can’t put words to it. If people ask he can’t answer. It’s just a song his body knows the next melody of. Is it not enough that the air is light and sweet and loves him?
Forward, forward, and up he goes. One. Two. Three. Four. And…