Archive of Our Own

The Gautiers' New Year's parties are such a waste of time now that Felix is old enough to have his own life. It was one thing when he didn't have anything better to do than play outside with the other kids. Now it's taking away from practice time. And not even for a good reason. It's hours—days—making fucking stupid small talk, pretending he cares about stocks and current events and dumb sports like curling. Dimitri won't even be there yet, because he goes home every Christmas and he's coming with his parents straight from Montreal. So instead it's just going to be Felix and Dad and Glenn and five hundred of the most boring people Felix has ever met.

"That number seems high," Dad says. "Surely two hundred at most."

Felix crosses his arms and slumps against the seatback. Dad thinks he's hilarious.

Glenn twists around in the passenger seat. "Most senior skaters would kill for a chance like this."

"Then invite them instead."

"Grow up."

"You grow up."

"I have, thanks, which is why I'm not going to throw away a chance to socialize with the most powerful people in our sport. Come on, Felix."

They've had this argument before, most recently after Glenn got back from development camp in September. "You're old enough to start thinking about this for yourself," Glenn said, like suddenly he was Felix's coach. It's just more of the same know-it-all bullshit. I won a Grand Prix medal, maybe you heard? Did I mention I'm taking college classes now?

"There's not even going to be that many skating people there," Felix says. The Gautiers always invite a bunch of rich people, locals, people who do stuff with oil. Cows. Whatever. "How am I supposed to know who isn't a fucking waste of time."

"Language," Dad interjects, without taking his eyes off the road.

"Wow, maybe you'll have to spend five minutes talking to someone whose life doesn't revolve around figure skating." Glenn rolls his eyes, obnoxiously. Like he has room to talk. "The judges will come to you, anyway. You don't even have to try to get their attention. All you have to do is not screw up."

"It's not my fault they're so boring."

"You're gonna have to spend a lot of time doing sh—stuff you think is boring when you get to seniors."

"They don't even care about my programs! It's all, do you know any of my friends, how many sponsors do you have, what does your coach think about your progress—"

"Yeah, and maybe if you learned to talk like a normal person for, like, two minutes—"

Felix kicks the back of Glenn's seat. Dad says, "Not the car, please."

What a dumbass idea. He's not a normal person. He's a figure skater.

Glenn says, "At least don't go off and hide in a corner with Dimitri this time. He knows it's important. He's just too nice to tell you to suck it up and grow up."

"Dimitri didn't have to suck up to anyone to get his junior GP assignments. Neither of us did."

"Yeah, because everyone else did it for you. Dad, Lambert, Katya, their friends. Seriously, Dad, tell him."

"Felix is old enough to make his own decisions," Dad says, which somehow comes out sounding like the exact opposite. But Glenn makes that face, that you are so spoiled face. Who died and left Glenn king of Skate Canada, anyway. Dick.

Besides, Felix knows the real reason Dad isn't getting on his case. They're on "vacation"—not much of a vacation, if you ask Felix—so he's supposed to be Dad and not Coach. That's the family rule. Never mind that by the end of the Gautiers' dumbass parties he always ends up sounding like Coach.

Felix doesn't really care either way. The rule's there because of Glenn's eleventh birthday dinner, when he lost his temper and yelled at Dad in front of all the other diners and the waiters and everyone and then burst into tears in the middle of the restaurant. The crying scared Felix almost as much as the look on Dad's face. After that, it was supposed to be Dad at home, and Coach at the rink. It mostly worked. Anyways, a couple years later Dimitri moved to Vancouver and started training at the Aegis and boarding at their house and now it's pretty much the same whether they're at the rink or at home. That's fine with Felix.

It's so fucking stupid. Don't you want good assignments, don't you know what they'll be thinking about when they give you your marks. It's all just another way of saying that his skating isn't good enough.

That's what it really comes down to. Some people think your skating doesn't talk for itself. Felix thinks it does. The best connections in the world won't matter if you wipe out on your triple axel. Glenn talks a lot of shit about sucking up to the federation and the judges and the ISU but he doesn't fool Felix. He's spent two years and counting trying to get the quad lutz. Felix has seen what he's like in the rink. You don't skate like that if you think it's about politics.

Felix's 3A is his best jump. Puberty better not fuck it up.

He forgot they were talking. That happens to him a lot when he's thinking about skating, which is most of the time. Glenn told him it makes him look rude. Well, too bad. Maybe other people should be more interesting. Glenn's let it go, anyway. He's blabbing to Dad about some dumbass sponsorship offer. Does it come with new gear? No? Then who cares.

Felix stares out the window, past the gritty snowplow berm to the trees. One time he saw a black bear right by the side of the road. The bears are hibernating now, obviously. There's not much to see in winter except birds, unless you get out in the forest. Supposedly moose like to hang out by the highway because they can climb up on the berm and get at the tree branches, but Felix has never actually seen one and they take this route every year.

He's thought a few times about doing an animal program. Not kid stuff, not like the Kitty Cat Waltz or that one girl who skated in a scarlet macaw costume with real feathers. But like a serious program. Animals move differently than people, just like skaters move differently than people. You could do something with that. He'd have to do some research to figure out what would be the best match, what choices were the most interesting. He's probably going to have to wait a couple more years before he can get anyone to take the idea seriously, which is annoying. He's ready to do it now.

When he checks back in on the conversation, Dad and Glenn are talking shit about some skater. "—rise to the occasion. I suspect he's never truly been pushed before."

"In that family? Yeah, right."

"He's still growing up."

"That's not what I hear."

"Glenn," Dad says.

"No, I know. I like the kid, seriously. He's got a lot going on under there."

"He looks up to you."

"I don't know about that." Glenn sounds amused. "Pretty sure he's forgotten he's not already a legal adult."

Felix tunes them back out. Dad's too nice sometimes. Whatever Glenn was saying, he's probably right.

The Gautiers do something different to show off every year. This year, there are ice sculptures lining the driveway and the front walk. They're kind of cool. Or some of them are, anyway. The Calgary '88 logo is lame.

Mr. Gautier is waiting on the front porch. Lambert is always Uncle Lambert and Ingrid's dad is Gunnar or Uncle Gunnar depending on what they're trying to get away with, but Mr. Gautier's never been anything other than Mr. Gautier. That's fine. Felix doesn't want to call him anything else. Handshakes, happy new year, aren't you cold, no not at all, blah blah blah. It's not special to stand outside without getting cold. Just wear the right gear.

"What an extraordinary spectacle," Dad says in that way that Felix can tell isn't actually a compliment, even though most people don't notice.

Mr. Gautier doesn't notice, either. "We do what we can to make it worth the trip. You should know, we're expecting a few extra guests from Geneva."

"Really," Dad—Coach says. Felix's eyes roll back in his head. More boring ISU politics, ugh.

Sometimes he wishes he had a fast forward button he could use in real life. Blah blah blah rules committee blah Vancouver blah blah Ingrid. He tunes back in at that, but they're talking about some French woman, not actual Ingrid.

Ingrid's not coming to the party this year. She's got a hockey tournament. When Felix and Ingrid were little they sent each other "letters," markers and stickers on construction paper, until Glenn teased Felix about having a girlfriend and Felix got so mad he cried (embarrassing) and Dad grounded Glenn which served him right. Now Glenn and Ingrid are friends, because they both love hockey so much or whatever. It's a stupid sport, if you ask Felix. It's like the most boring version of skating possible. Even speed skating is better than hockey.

Now they're talking about where everyone will sleep. "—the blue bedroom upstairs, but you'll want to check with Victoria."

"Miklan's room, right?" Glenn says. "Guess he's not making it this year."

Miklan hasn't been at the last few parties. Felix doesn't miss him.

Mr. Gautier smiles, but it doesn't really look like a smile. "The team keeps him busy."

"Too bad." Glenn doesn't sound like he thinks it's too bad. "Pond hockey's not the same without him, that's for sure."

Mr. Gautier raises an eyebrow. "Pond hockey? I'm surprised at you, Glenn, taking that kind of risk in the middle of the season. But boys will be boys, I suppose."

Almost no one talks to Glenn like that any more. Glenn gives Mr. Gautier the same smile he gives other skaters right before a competition. "It's all about the right precautions. Soft puck, no contact. You could lace up with us yourself. How about it, sir?"

Mr. Gautier always looks pissed off, but now he looks extra pissed off. He looks from Glenn to Dad like this is Dad's fault.

"Don't look at me," Dad says. "You'll have to take it up with my brother. You know I can hardly tell the Canadiens from the Nordiques."

Only Glenn's face, which he smooths out quickly but not quickly enough, tells Felix that Dad is doing this on purpose. Well, that and my brother. Dad almost never mentions Uncle Rodolphe, who lives in a shack on Vancouver Island and grows organic strawberries. Glenn says he also grows marijuana but Felix doesn't think that's actually true.

"To each their own parenting—or I suppose I should say coaching. Excuse me, I see our friends have arrived." Mr. Gautier walks away. Dad and Glenn trade a look.

"You're worse than I am." Glenn sounds admiring.

"What can I say," Dad says. "I'm simply an out-of-touch old figure skater."

Felix has had enough hockey. "Can I go get food now?"

Dad lifts his eyes skyward. "Yes, Felix. You may go get food."

He doesn't say anything about the nutrition plan, not that Felix needs the reminder, but it's nice to have a coach that trusts you to have your shit together. "Remember what I said!" Glenn calls after him. "If a judge talks to you, pretend like you don't think they're a complete idiot!"

The food is where it always is, three giant tables in the formal dining room loaded up buffet-style. Felix will give the Gautiers this: their parties always have really, really good food. He's piling his plate as high as it will structurally allow when he realizes the flaw in his plan. It's like zebras at the watering hole. You're stuck there when the predators arrive.

"My goodness," some lady he's never seen before in his life says, "you must be Rodrigue's son. You look just like him."

No, he doesn't: he looks like their mom. Glenn looks like Dad, if he had shorter hair. But whatever. "Yeah."

"You won't believe this, but your father and I were in Sarajevo together, years ago."

"Uh huh."

"I'm sure he's told you all about it. It was such a special Games. When I think of what happened to that beautiful town..."

Felix has heard enough about Sarajevo to last a lifetime. Focus on his plate. He's starving, even though they stopped to eat on the drive like two hours ago. Which probably means his growth spurt isn't over.

Here's the problem. Felix grew two inches in a year. He's still shorter than both Glenn and Dimitri, which is annoying. But it comes down to tradeoffs. He's already struggling with his jumps. Another inch or two and he'll lose the Biellmann. Not to brag, but Felix's Biellmann is one of the best in the business. Azura Anyakova told him so.

The lady is looking at Felix expectantly. This is why he needs those buttons. Fast forward and rewind. She was saying something about Dad. Stories? Memories? Something.

"I'll... tell him," he says. The lady smiles. "I'm—going to find him. Now." He escapes without looking to see whether she believes him or not.

Unfortunately, ditching the food tables means he has to go back to the "great room", which is a stupid name for a really big living room. Felix wedges himself in a corner next to a weird-looking sculpture, where hopefully he's out of sight. No luck. People keep trying to talk to him. Some of them seem to think they're doing him a favor, like he wants company. Read the room. But no, they have to ask who his parents are and how he knows the Gautiers and which school he goes to. Felix doesn't have to go to school any more. Not to classes, anyway—Dad made him and Dimitri get a tutor and they do four hours a day in their study room at the Aegis. Felix hasn't given up hope that Dad will eventually give in and stop making him waste so much practice time, which would be a lot more likely if it weren't for Glenn's college classes. It's not even a real college.

Anyway, that's how he knows they're the locals. They don't know shit about figure skating.

Not that the skating ones aren't just as bad. Look how you've grown, you must be skating novice by now, when Felix has been in juniors since the day he turned thirteen. You must be so proud of Glenn, aren't Glenn's medals amazing, isn't Glenn the most talented skater in the history of Canada. Except for Dimitri, of course.

Out of habit, he checks his phone. Dad finally let him get his own last year. He doesn't really use it for anything but texting Dimitri, and sometimes Glenn, but it's the principle of the thing. Dimitri still hasn't texted, so he's probably still in the air. Or maybe he just forgot to turn his own phone back on after he landed. No matter how many Felix tells him he always forgets. How long can it take to fly to Calgary from Montreal, anyway?

The little meat skewers are good. Spicy. Felix helps himself to another two or three.

Dad always says he wishes there were more young people at these parties, but it's not like that would make it any better. It would be just like when Felix sees other "friends" he's supposed to "know," kids from elementary school or whatever. What are you up to these days. What's your favorite band, what's your favorite class. Stupid questions about stupid shit that Felix doesn't bother wasting time on. What he's up to is figure skating. Do they want to talk about his favorite jump approach? The best types of aerobic exercise? No? Then don't waste his time.

If he wasn't at the party he could be watching Japanese nationals. They're happening right now, as everyone speaks. That kid who beat Dimitri at Junior Worlds two years ago, Takumi or whatever his name is, is apparently the favorite. Supposedly he has a quad sal now. If he pulls it off at nationals, it'll make him the youngest Japanese man to land a quad in history.

He's seventeen, which means Felix has two years to do better. That's practically a lifetime.

He realizes he's glaring when some woman in his line of sight makes eye contact. She looks startled. He tries to look sorry, sort of, and immediately regrets it when she starts to come in his direction. Now she's going to think he wants to talk to her. Great.

She smiles at him. It's that smile he's seen a million times before: Aren't you adorable, you complete baby. "Are you Glenn Fraldarius's brother?"

Unfortunately. "Yes."

"He was just telling me about you."

Felix eyes her. She's not Skate Canada, or he'd know her. "You know Glenn?"

"We were just introduced. What an accomplished young man. And you're a figure skater, too? How fun."

Felix has had exactly as much of this from the locals as he can take. "I don't skate because it's fun."

That throws her for a loop. "I'm sorry?"

"You don't have to pretend you care. It's fine."

Both her creepy thin eyebrows go up. "I beg your—"

"Felix, darling," someone else says. That's Manuela Casagranda. Felix knows her; she has two Olympic golds. She's always at skating stuff. "And Elise, how are you?" They exchange air kisses. Elise looks like they hurt.

Stop. Hold on. If Manuela knows her—

Manuela says to Felix, like obviously he already knows this, "Elise is with the COC, darling."

As in, the Canadian Olympic Committee. Great. Just great.

Elise gives Felix a cold little smile. Felix... makes an expression. It's kind of like a smile.

He focuses on wolfing down the rest of the little skewers while Manuela and Elise from the COC talk about Vancouver—as in, the Games, which is all anyone talks about these days. Felix actually does pay a little attention, just in case it's relevant information, but it's the same useless shit as always. This person thinks they should do this, that person is bitching about that. Dad was invited to be on some board for the Organizing Committee but he said no. Too much time away from coaching.

Manuela breaks in. "Felix, dear, you don't mind if we let you finish here, do you?"

Felix's mouth is full. He shakes his head, and Manuela smiles and links her arm with Elise from the COC's and they go off to bother someone else. Now that Felix is looking around, he can see that there are at least twice as many people as there were when he arrived. That must be why it's so fucking loud. And hot. Someone should open a window. His plate is empty. Why is he still standing here? He should get out.

Felix sticks his empty plate behind the sculpture and does just that.

It's quieter the further you get into the house. When he was a kid it seemed like the Gautiers lived in the biggest house in the world. Now he gets that the Blaiddyds' house (mansion, whatever), which is almost two hundred years old, is actually a bigger deal. But it's still stupidly big. They're always doing something to it, too, adding a pool or a new wing or redoing a room no one uses. Seems like a waste of money. But it's the Gautiers, so they're probably really picky. Or really bored.

Felix wanders down the hall, opening and closing doors at random. Some of them are locked. One has a piano. Felix can't remember if it was there last year. He tries the next door.

Felix doesn't remember this room, either, but whatever it used to be, it's in the middle of being turned into something else. The floor is covered with plastic sheets, and one of the walls is stripped down to the studs. The other has brand new shelves built into it; the wood is unfinished and there's sawdust all over the floor. In other words: perfect. No one's going to use this room. It's the ideal place to hide, just Felix and the dust and— Something moves.

Felix is so busy not jumping a foot in the air that even with the red hair his brain takes an extra moment to say, that's Sylvain Gautier.

Sylvain must be startled too. He's standing next to a big construction workbench, all the way down at the other end of the room. There's a cardboard box on the bench, next to a red plastic cup, and he looks like he's watching a freshly sharpened skate come down right next to his head.

Or maybe that was Felix's surprise talking. Now Sylvain looks fine. "Oh, hey, Felix," he says, like the last time they saw each other was a few days ago, and not this time last year. "How's it going?"

"Fine." Felix toes some sawdust around. "What about you."

Sylvain gestures at the bench. "Right now? Things are looking up."

Then he smiles.

This is the problem with Sylvain Gautier. He looked normal when they were kids, Felix is pretty sure, then all of a sudden he didn't. It was bad last year, but now it's even worse. A smile shouldn't be able to make you feel—things. Things your dad tried to talk about in the most embarrassing conversation in the history of time, things you would rather die or commit murder or lose a Grand Prix final than talk about with your dad. (Maybe not lose gold. Maybe, like... lose silver.)

It's puberty, or whatever. Felix knows that. But he doesn't have to fucking like it.

"Come take a look at this," Sylvain says, so Felix can't even stay safely by the door. He shoves his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie and shuffles over. Sylvain isn't wearing a hoodie. He's dressed... nice. He probably has to be since it's his house and his party but in Felix's opinion that shouldn't be allowed either.

Up close, Felix can see that the cardboard box used to hold figure skates. It's filled with a bunch of bottles in different sizes, shapes, colors. They look expensive.

Sylvain holds up a small, round bottle in one hand and a ruler in the other. Something amber sloshes around. The sleeve of his dress shirt stretches around his shoulder. "I'm shooting for two inches. What do you think? Close enough?"

Felix eyeballs the liquid. "I guess."

"Great." Sylvain wedges a cork back into the bottle and puts it back in the box. Then he picks out another bottle, measures it with the ruler, pulls out the stopper, and pours a little bit into the plastic cup.

Felix asks, "What's that." Sylvain raises both eyebrows. Great. "I mean what you're making. Mixing."

"I call it the Gautier special. Ambiguity intended." Felix doesn't know what that means. "Dad's started tracking how much is in the bottles, so. Gotta go with a little of this, a little of that."

"Is that... good."

"Sure. Probably. I mean, I'm not trying to poison myself, but sometimes these things just happen." Sylvain tips the bottle back up and swirls the cup around. "Anyway, it's just for tonight. In a day or so everyone'll be too fucked up to pay attention. But the first night's when you want it the most."

"Won't they notice if you're..." Drinking? Drunk? He sounds like a baby.

"Hm? Oh, no one cares if I drink. Dad just doesn't want to waste the good stuff on me." Sylvain twists the stopper with a flourish. "That's what makes it taste so great."

That makes sense. Sort of. "Anyway, eighteen months to go and then I can develop taste. I've had just about enough of this amateur shit. I'm thinking maybe I'll be a whiskey guy." Sylvain flashes Felix a grin. "Sounds cool, right?"

Felix has no idea what sounds cool. "I guess."

Sylvain holds up another funny-shaped bottle at eye level and tilts it back and forth. He looks kind of like he's using a chemistry set. "Remind me. You're... fifteen?"

"Soon. My birthday's in February."

"Right, yeah. I remember. Lillehammer baby."

Felix starts. "How did you—

He stops. But that's what Dad always said he was, before Felix got old enough to realize it was embarrassing and told him to stop. Then Glenn got mad at him and said it was what Mom and Dad called him before he was born, but how was kid Felix supposed to know that?

Sylvain glances up. "Huh?"

"Nothing."

"So you must be doing junior GP now. Yeah?" Sylvain is sorting through the bottles in the box, examining their labels.

"Yeah. The final was a couple weeks ago."

"Oh, yeah. They've got juniors and seniors together now, huh. Cool."

Most people would ask how he did. The fact that Sylvain doesn't might be what makes Felix say, "I got bronze."

Sylvain looks up at that. "No shit?"

Felix shrugs. "Dimitri got gold." Dimitri five, Felix two, not that he's counting. Aloud.

"Oof."

That little grimace just makes him contrary. "It's better than one of the Americans. They're all a pain in the ass."

Sylvain smiles a little. "Yeah. You're pretty good friends, huh?"

Felix shrugs again. Dimitri's—Felix doesn't really know how to describe it. Friends. Rivals. Nothing really gets it all. Dimitri is Dimitri.

Thinking about it makes his ears hot. Sylvain says, "That's cool. Some people would get pissed off, you know? Always stuck skating with the fed favorite."

"I beat him last year," Felix says, because he did, at junior nationals. So what if it was in the middle of Dimitri's growth spurt? It still counts. And he's going to do it again.

Dad's already said Dimitri is going to move up to senior nationals next year, even though he'll still do junior GP. Felix hasn't given up on convincing Dad—Coach—to let him make the jump too. If he can just beat Dimitri at junior nationals this year, he'll have an argument. Who cares about another year of experience? He'll do junior Grand Prix, junior Worlds, whatever. He just wants to go to senior nationals. Because once he's there—then it's not up to Coach. It's up to the judges. It's up to Skate Canada. They're the ones who will decide who goes to Vancouver. That's when he'll prove that he deserves to go, too.

He did it again—got distracted. Sylvain looks a little amused. Did he just say something? Felix rewinds the tape in his head.

Yeah? Good for you.

"Thanks," he says belatedly. What does he know about Sylvain? "I heard you got sent to Skate America this year."

To be exact, he heard that Sylvain and his partner—Marie? Melissa?—are the youngest senior ice dancers to represent Canada on the Grand Prix circuit in twenty years. Some people have all the luck.

"Yeah, not exactly a deep field." Sylvain shrugs. "But growth's gotta start somewhere. That's the theory, anyway."

Felix shifts on his feet. "Well. Congratulations, I guess."

"Thanks." Sylvain sounds distracted. He squints at the dark blue bottle he's holding. "Does this say 88%?"

It says, in clear print, 36%. Felix slides a look at Sylvain. "How much did you drink already?"

It sounds meaner than he intended. Sylvain doesn't seem to mind. He says cheerfully, "Not a drop. Give me two minutes." He pours a little from the blue bottle into the cup, screws the cap back on, and surveys his creation. "Okay, I think we're done. You want some?"

He immediately looks like he wishes he hadn't said it. Felix knows why. Because he looks like he's twelve, if that—he's not fooling himself. He's small for his age and he just had another breakout last week. He barely has to shave yet; if Glenn's any indication, that's never really going to change.

But it wouldn't matter if he did look older, or if he was older. Even Glenn, who's old enough to do it legally, doesn't drink during the competition season. It's one of Dad's rules. Glenn says that's a superstition, and that there's no reason you can't drink—responsibly, Dad—as long as you take it into account in your nutrition plan, but he doesn't anyway.

Felix shakes his head. "No thanks."

"Cool." Sylvain lifts the cup and tips it at Felix, a silly little gesture. "Cheers."

Before Felix can say anything he takes a big gulp. Then, a second later, his face screws up like it's the most disgusting thing he's ever tasted.

Felix can't help—well, it's a laugh. Kind of a snort. But definitely a laugh.

"Uh. Wow." Sylvain blinks hard once, twice, then gives himself a little shake all over, dog-like. For a minute he almost looks like—not a kid. But not as old. "Okay, yeah, you made the right call. Can't say I recommend this."

Felix says, "Maybe you should get started now. Being a whiskey guy."

Sylvain laughs a little, like he's surprised. "Maybe so." He takes another drink, makes another face. "The sooner the better."

European coaches are always going on about how backwards North America is. Still. "Your coach doesn't care?"

"Ha. No. I kinda set my own rules." Sylvain takes another drink. "Is Rodrigue, like, ultra-strict?"

Felix shrugs. He wouldn't know how to judge. Dad's the only coach he's ever had.

Sylvain sets the cup down. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a silver flask, the kind you see in movies. Someone's initials are on it; Felix can't read them. Sylvain squeezes the edge of the cup until it forms a little spout and carefully pours the Gautier special into the flask. Felix watches him concentrate.

Sylvain says, eyes on the pour, "Hey, I heard Glenn's doing community college classes this year."

"I guess."

"Does he like them?"

Felix knows how bratty he sounds but sometimes he just can't help it. "Ask him. He won't shut up about it."

"That much, huh?" Sylvain's absorbed in getting the last few drops. "Maybe I will."

Because Felix wants to forget how he just sounded, and because he wants to make Sylvain look up, and because he's fucking stupid, he says, "He was talking about setting up a hockey game tomorrow. With a soft puck or something. So no one has to worry about injuries."

"You always have to worry about injuries," Sylvain says, but it sounds automatic. He puts the cup down and finally looks up. "I don't get what your brother sees in that game. But yeah. I'll be there."

(The game never does happen and Felix doesn't see Sylvain again until the last day of the party. But that's all in the future.)

Sylvain screws the top of the flask in place. "Too bad Ingrid's not here. She'd clean up at pond hockey."

"I heard she has a tournament."

"She says. I think Mom scared her away."

Felix frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Boring story. Where's Dimitri, by the way?" Sylvain looks past Felix's shoulder, like maybe he just missed Dimitri there all along. Which is dumb. It's impossible to miss Dimitri.

"How should I know?" Felix says. Snaps. Sylvain raises an eyebrow. Felix hates the way it makes him feel like he's stumbling over his own feet. "I just mean—he's coming from Montreal. Flying. With his parents. They were supposed to be here already but he hasn't texted me. So."

"Ah." Sylvain sounds like he understands something. There's nothing to understand. "Well, whenever he shows up, tell him I said hi. Or—I guess I'll see him around. Not tonight, though. If I'm lucky.

Felix frowns. "If you're—oh."

That's the other thing about Sylvain. Some people who think they're hot shit, Glenn, would make you feel like a dumb baby for not getting it right away. Sylvain just says, "Cross your fingers for me, eh?"

It's a stupid thing to say. Sylvain doesn't need anyone to cross their fingers for him. Not when he looks—it's just stupid. He'll be fine.

Felix is saved from having to say this, or anything else, when Sylvain suddenly goes still. It reminds Felix of the rabbits he saw that one time they went snowshoeing in Banff, when the snow crunched extra loud under his boots. They went super still, and their ears went up. They weren't running away, but they were thinking about it. They were listening.

Felix listens, too. Voices outside the room: he hadn't noticed. Women's voices, grown-ups, laughing all fake.

Sylvain puts a finger to his lips. Carefully, so the bottles don't clink, he picks up the shoebox.

The voices are getting louder. Closer.

Sylvain drops out of sight. Felix just stares at the empty workbench. Then Sylvain pops up again and makes an impatient gesture at Felix, get over here. Felix doesn't know what else to do, so he goes.

There's not a lot of room behind the bench. Felix sits gingerly at the very edge. His caution is ruined when Sylvain reaches out and yanks him in by the arm, until they're side by side.

There's these breathing exercises that Felix does at the rink sometimes. He's concentrating on them now, hard. Sylvain is a head taller than Felix. He's hot, like a furnace. His arm is heavy. It's muscular. Felix can feel it touching his.

He didn't even hear the door open. Suddenly Mrs. Gautier's voice is right there, like she's talking in Felix's ear. "And this will be the library... eventually. The renovation is taking an eternity."

"Contractors," one of the other voices says, like that's supposed to mean something.

"If only," Mrs. Gautier says, with a dry little laugh. "This is Jean's pet project. I don't believe that man's ever cared so much about a book in his life."

More fake laughter. Sylvain rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. Felix can barely pay attention. He can barely notice anything other than how Sylvain's shoulder is brushing his, just barely, barely even touching, so why does his entire body feel like it's on fire.

They're all talking about colors and plastering and wallpaper. Footsteps moving around the room. Felix can't focus. When he feels like this at the rink he can skate suicides or do crunches or go run laps around the building. Here he just has to sit here and take it.

Step. Step. Step. "The French doors are lovely. Of course you lose so much heat."

"With our heating bill what it is, it's a drop in the bucket, really. Jean just loves the view." Step. Step.

Sylvain leans over and whispers in his ear, "If we get caught, you never saw inside the box."

It tickles the hair on the back of Felix's neck. His head is going to explode. He presses his thighs together even tighter.

The footsteps stop. "But that's enough renovations," Mrs. Gautier says. She sounds even faker than before. "What you really must see is the yoga room. Come upstairs and take a peek."

This time, Felix hears the door close. He doesn't move. He's not sure he can.

Sylvain rises silently to a crouch and peers over the bench. The coast must be clear, because he straightens all the way up. Then he says, softly, "Damn."

Felix sees it as soon as he gets to his feet. The empty red plastic cup, sitting in plain sight on top of the workbench.

He doesn't really know what Sylvain's expression means. Sylvain exhales, slow. "Well. Better Mom than Dad. Who knows, maybe she'll forget before the weekend's over."

Felix doesn't say anything. His heart is still pounding too loud. Stupid fucking chemicals.

Sylvain doesn't seem to notice. He hefts the cardboard box in one arm. "Now to sneak these back into Dad's liquor cabinet." He starts in the direction of the big glass doors Mrs. Gautier and her friends were talking about. Felix doesn't know if he's supposed to follow.

Sylvain looks over his shoulder. "Coming?"

It was still light when Felix got here, but now it's pitch black. The ice sculptures are lit up; Felix can't see more than the tops of them but they leave little patches glowing in the air, pink and blue and green, like the northern lights. There are lights out on the grounds, too, all along a bunch of paths shoveled in the snow. They don't take them. Sylvain leads them along the deck, hugging the wall, until they get to another door, smaller and more solid. Felix waits, shivering, while Sylvain does something to the lock until it clicks. Then they're inside.

This must be Mr. Gautier's... lair. Den, study, whatever. It looks like a lair, all dark and creepy. There's a fancy glass-fronted cabinet built into one of the bookshelves. Sylvain has to mess with the lock again to get the door to pop open.

Felix watches as Sylvain restocks the cabinet, smooth and silent. His hands go all the way around the smaller bottles. They're bigger than Felix's. That must make it easier to lift people, like his partner. It's probably easier to do a lot of things.

When Sylvain's done, he gestures Felix toward the other door, the inside one. They pick their way past the furniture in the dark. Sylvain puts his ear to the door, then quietly turns the handle. The hallway is empty. They slip out. Sylvain eases the door closed behind them.

Only then does Felix finally let out a deep breath. His chest feels like it's about to implode.

Sylvain smiles down at him. Fuck puberty, and fuck tall people. "Mission accomplished."

Sylvain turns down the hall, heading for the rest of the house. Felix rubs his palms against his joggers before he follows.

Sylvain walks slowly, like he's not in a hurry to get back to the party either. Neither of them say anything. Why would they.

It's puberty. It's chemicals. And it's going to go away.

They're cutting through the piano room now. Someone else has been in here and left both doors wide open. Light's spilling in from the rest of the house, where the party is. The piano gleams in the dark.

"This is a weird question," Sylvain says, all of a sudden. "Does Glenn ever—"

He doesn't finish the sentence. They just stand there in the dark. Felix can hear Sylvain breathing.

"What," Felix finally says. Before he starts to think about—anything.

"It seems like you guys get along okay."

"He's annoying," Felix says automatically. Sylvain smiles a little. Felix doesn't like the way that makes the difference between their ages feel so big, all of a sudden. Like Sylvain's thinking it too: cute kid.

Felix says, "When he remembers he's my brother. Not my coach. He's okay."

"Yeah." Sylvain doesn't say anything else for a minute. He's looking intently at Felix. Felix can see him, even in the dark. His eyes are really brown. Felix's ears are burning. This is stupid. It doesn't mean anything. He knows it doesn't mean anything.

Sylvain says, "If you found out that your—"

"Felix?" someone says, from the direction of the light.

It's like—a bubble popping, or waking up from a nap on the mats. It's like the moment you finish your program, when the rest of the world comes rushing back. Suddenly Felix can hear the chatter, the clinking of glasses and forks, the footsteps, the bellows of laughter, the loud voices, even the tinny jingle of music. The smell of something spicy and holiday-like.

Next to him, Sylvain drops his voice to an exaggerated whisper. "Guess that's my cue to bounce. See you later, Felix."

"See you," Felix says, without looking Sylvain in the face. Take that, chemicals. Sylvain fades back the way they came. Felix is already halfway toward the light.

"Felix, myshka," Aunt Katya says again, waving to him as he emerges into the foyer, pulling forward—

"Felix," Dimitri says, from a foot above his mother's head, beaming all over his stupid face. "There you are."

I was waiting for you, Felix does not say, trying not to choke on his own relief. He says, "You're late."

"We—"

"Did your plane hit an eagle or something."

Dimitri blinks. "That's very specific."

"It happened one time. I read about it." He felt bad for the eagle. "Well?"

"We didn't hit any eagles. As far as I'm aware." Dimitri always has to be accurate. "The flight was delayed. I texted—oh, hm..."

Felix whacks him on the arm. "Turn on your phone, asshole."

"I did! That is, I thought I did. I would swear that..." Dimitri is looking woefully at his phone and its sad blank screen.

"I'll leave you with Felix, my love," Dimitri's mother says, and leans up to kiss his cheek. Dimitri lights up like one of the ice sculptures. Felix pretends not to notice.

When Dimitri first started training with them at the Aegis, his parents flew out to visit all the time. They even talked about Ekaterina renting a place in Vancouver during the skating season. It never happened, supposedly because she would have spent all her time back east anyway for her commitments, whatever that means. But Felix always suspected the Blaiddyds just didn't want to be apart that long. He thought it was gross when he was a kid and—actually, he still kind of thinks it's gross. If parents have to be romantic, they should at least keep it to themselves.

Anyway, Dimitri doesn't see his parents that often and he's always so happy when he does that it gets kind of embarrassing, so Felix doesn't mention it.

After a few seconds, when Felix decides it's safe to pay attention again, Aunt Katya is gone and Dimitri is watching him like he's the funny one.

"What," Felix says, defensively.

"You're a very good friend, Felix," Dimitri says, like that's a normal thing that normal people just say. "I'm glad you came."

"Ugh," says Felix, and—fine. Reaches out and... gives Dimitri a hug, or whatever. Exactly half a second. Not longer. He's not touching anyone for more than half a second in public.

Or that's the plan, and then Dimitri won't let go.

Ever since his growth spurt, Dimitri's had four inches on Felix. Lately it seems like it might be five. Felix refuses to ask. He pushes himself free. It's too warm inside for physical contact. "Let's get food. I'm hungry."

It's even louder now, if that was even possible. People are crawling all over the house now, like ants. There are empty glasses all over the place. Dimitri hovers at the edge of the crowd spilling out of the great room, craning to look over people's heads. Felix knows exactly what he's going to say before he says it. "Where's Glenn?"

"Probably sucking up to some ISU asshat."

"Oh. Oh, really? I heard there would be—should I—"

"No. You shouldn't." Dimitri doesn't look convinced. Felix rolls his eyes. "You obviously don't need to."

Neither of them do. The difference is that Felix knows it.

"Glenn says that we should do everything we can to help officials establish their opinions before we move up to seniors."

Felix rolls his eyes. "If Glenn said so."

Dimitri frowns. "What does that mean?"

"It means if Glenn told you to throw your free skate you'd do it."

Dimitri's frown deepens. He raises his voice. "What?"

"I said, if he—" Oh, fuck Dimitri. He's doing it again, on purpose. Faking it, just to fuck with Felix. Dimitri cups a hand around his ear, and then— "Stop that, asshole," Felix fumes, as Dimitri leans down right into Felix's space, breathing all over him.

He's not short, he's average, or close enough, and it's good for figure skating anyway. He's lucky. So if Dimitri could just stop acting like he was small, like Dimitri isn't the problem here, that would be fucking great.

He shoves Dimitri, short and hard and straight to the chest. Careful not to make contact for too long, because then he might knock him over or something. Dimitri barely moves.

Fine. Fucking—fine. Felix turns on his heel. He's going to get food. Either Dimitri will figure it out or he won't.

Dimitri figures it out. He follows as Felix elbows through the crowd, not letting anyone hold him up, not acting like he has to apologize for just being there, so then obviously some idiot with a giant-ass belt buckle who can't be bothered to look where he's going gets right in Felix's way. And of course he's six feet tall at least and he's already drunk and waving his arms around, all of which is to say his elbow is headed straight for Felix's face.

Felix is a figure skater, okay? A good one. He's got great balance. He's fucking agile. He could have dodged. He doesn't need Dimitri to grab him by the shoulders and jerk him to a standstill, so that the elbow stops short of making contact. That's why his face is red. Because he's mad.

He shrugs Dimitri off. Tries to. "I can take care of myself."

"Can you?" Dimitri says mildly. He doesn't let go.

God, sometimes Dimitri's so annoying. Felix jabs an elbow backward. Dimitri's too used to his tactics. He dodges, all without letting go of Felix's shoulders, which is stupid. Felix steps backward, aiming for his foot—near miss—and tries to get an arm around Dimitri's middle but Dimitri holds him off. And then they're just scuffling in the middle of the Gautiers' "great room," which is full of stupid and ugly artwork that costs a million dollars, but Felix isn't going to surrender, so what if Dimitri has an unfair advantage because he's five—four inches taller. It's like it's so easy for him. When did he get so strong, anyway? He used to have toothpicks for arms, figure skaters don't need—Dimitri lets go and Felix staggers into one of the little tables. The art rattles. Someone nearby murmurs all shocked.

"Boys," someone says. Uncle Gunnar. He's trying to sound like this is serious, but instead he just sounds like he thinks it's funny. He makes a little motion with his head.

On the other side of her pointlessly big living room filled with two hundred of the most boring people in Alberta, Mrs. Gautier is staring at them. She definitely doesn't think it's funny.

"This might be a good time to get some fresh air," Gunnar suggests.

In the end they have to squeeze all the way back through everyone to get to the front hall. Felix refuses to let Dimitri lead the way but that just means Dimitri keeps bumping into his back, breathing down his neck, looming over Felix like some kind of—of Frankenstein. By the time they fight their way out of the crowd of idiots and their pointy boots and their giant belt buckles, Felix's toes are sore and his shin is bruised and his face is burning. The cold air smacks him in the face as they burst out the doors onto the porch. Good. Felix ignores the goosebumps all over his arms and the way his teeth want to chatter. He stomps over to the fancy iron bench, throws himself down, and snarls, "I fucking hate parties."

"Really?" Dimitri says. "I had no idea. Tell me more about your secret opinions, Felix."

"You think you're so funny."

"I do, thank you." Dimitri sits next to him. His shoulders relax.

Dimitri doesn't like crowds. It's funny, because he's much better than Felix is at stupid shit like small talk. He actually cares about stocks and current events and dumb sports like curling. But he doesn't like it when there's too many people in one room.

"How was home," Felix says, grudging.

"Very nice, thank you. How did you spend your break?" Felix opens his mouth, and Dimitri says at the same time he does, "In the rink."

Dimitri thinks he's so funny. Felix rolls his eyes. "Dad took us cross-country skiing in Squamish. It was fine. What did you do in Montreal."

Dimitri always has a lot of stories when he goes home about everything his family did, things that are objectively boring but fine if that's what you're into. Dimitri seems to like them, anyway. It's not like Felix has a lot to add; aside from the rink, he mostly went running and did strength training with Glenn and watched figure skating.

He ends up telling Dimitri about Takumi Oda and the Japanese quad record, which as usual Dimitri had no idea about. Dimitri never pays as much attention to records unless it's something Glenn or Felix did, which is sort of nice and sort of annoying. Yeah, it must be nice to break so many records you don't even notice them.

He always listens when Felix wants to talk about skating, though. That's the good thing about Dimitri. He doesn't think it's boring. They never run out of things to talk about.

Dimitri's on board with Felix's plan for senior nationals, too. He said it would be nice to have company. Which, again: kind of nice. Kind of annoying.

After a while they lapse into silence. Sometimes they do that. Just hang out.

Felix's breath crystallizes when he exhales. He's starting to lose the feeling in his hands.

He nudges Dimitri's foot. "Hey. Happy birthday."

"Thank you," Dimitri says. He sounds a little wounded. Argh, Felix hates it when Dimitri does the voice. It's even worse because he's not trying to make you feel guilty. It just comes naturally. "I still don't understand why you were so busy."

Birthdays are a big deal in Felix's family. They celebrate at home every year, in February for Felix and in August for Glenn and the last day before winter break for Dimitri, but Felix has never been there for Dimitri's actual birthday. Not since... whenever it was. Before Glenn was skating novice, even, because they were in Montreal for two whole weeks. So maybe it was right after their mom died. Anyway, Felix doesn't remember that much, just the huge birthday cake Dimitri's parents brought out, bigger than Dimitri's head. It was too sweet and Felix cried because he couldn't eat it.

The point is: Dimitri invited him to come out and visit for the week, Christmas and his birthday. The same as he did last year, and the year before that. They don't do Christmas at Felix's house. They barely do New Year's, even though it was—is—a big deal for his mom's family. But even so, Felix feels weird about the idea of going to stay in Montreal for a whole week, for Christmas. When he knows what a big deal it is to them.

Anyway. He said no.

"I see you every day," Felix says. "Literally every single day."

"Not during the off season." Dimitri just has to be accurate.

"Yeah, whatever. It's not the off season. It's December."

"It's Christmas br—"

"We just spent like a hundred and fifty hours together in South Korea and by the time we flew home you told me my chewing was annoying."

"It was," Dimitri says. And then, "You're changing the subject, aren't you?"

"I am not."

"I'm just trying to say that—"

"You said my chewing's annoying."

"—I wish you'd come," Dimitri says.

It's freezing cold, but his face is burning. How is that even physically possible.

His body is touching Dimitri's in exactly three places. The side of his knee, legs spread outward. The edge of his foot. His shoulder.

This is also the chemicals and of all the betrayals by his body—the cracks in his voice when he least expects them, the jumps he has to relearn two inches off center, the hot face and the messy dreams and the way he can barely look at people like Sylvain Gautier—this is the one that's most unforgivable.

The chemicals are drying out his mouth. It's so fucking stupid.

"Yeah," Felix says. It's a normal voice. "Maybe next year."

"That's what you said last year."

"Blame my coach."

Dimitri rolls his eyes. Most people never see him do that. "Very funny."

"He thinks you're slacking on your training when you go home. He told me."

"He did not."

"He might have."

"That's not funny."

"I think it's—"

"Son," Uncle Lambert says, from the doorway.

He's framed against the indoor light. Tall, broad-shouldered, all lit-up and golden like—like a warrior angel, or something. That's an embarrassing thought: Felix erases it. "There's some people I'd like you to meet."

"Father," Dimitri says, the same ice sculpture glow as with Aunt Katya. Like there's nothing he wants more than to meet some dead weight from the ISU. "Of course. That is—Felix, you don't mind?"

Felix heaves a sigh, just to make Dimitri squirm for a second, then says, "No. Go meet people."

"Felix," Uncle Lambert says gravely. "How goes the season?"

Felix shrugs. "Okay. I should have done better at the GP final."

Uncle Lambert glances at Dimitri, so Felix has to elaborate. "That asshole who got silver. I should have beat him." He flips a hand at Dimitri. "I mean, him too. But what else is new."

Uncle Lambert laughs in a sympathetic way, but he can't pretend he doesn't like it. He's always so happy whenever any of them—Dad, Glenn, Felix—says something nice about Dimitri. Dimitri's ears are pink. He's embarrassed, ha. An eye for a tooth, or whatever.

"Come to think of it, perhaps you should come along, Felix." Uncle Lambert sounds thoughtful. "It's not a bad idea for you to begin getting to know leadership. You'll see them regularly before you know it."

Dimitri gives Felix an apprehensive little glance. Felix opens his mouth to say exactly what he thinks about that and—

You didn't have to because everyone did it for you.

After a second, Felix shrugs, even though he knows it doesn't come across as very—gracious, or whatever. "Okay."

After the outdoor cold, it feels like the heat and the noise inside is going to smother them. Felix's fingers sting—fine, maybe he should have worn gloves—and he knows his face must be flushed, bright red. He trails a few steps after Dimitri and Uncle Lambert, trying to will his body temperature to even out. If he has to talk to this stupid judge or ISU president or whatever, he at least doesn't want to sweat all over everything while he's doing it.

He only notices because of the way the light bounces off the hair. You don't have to be looking for it to catch your attention.

Sylvain is slouched against the wall like he could melt into it. His eyes are extra bright. He's got all his attention on some girl who's probably pretty, or hot, or whatever, if you're into gir— That's not a girl. That's Sara Lemieux, who was national junior champion three years in a row before she flamed out. She's Glenn's age, or even older.

See. He didn't need anyone to cross their fingers for him. Felix or anyone else.

But just as Uncle Lambert turns his head, huge hand resting between Dimitri's shoulder blades, something makes Sylvain look up from gazing at some has-been, look past the crowds. Catch Felix's eye. And then—

Who even winks, like, for real. Who does that. Who makes it look good.

Dimitri's already backtracking. "Felix?"

"Yeah," Felix manages to say, normally, he's got this. His ears are so hot that he knows they must be bright red but that's why he has long hair, it's fine, he's fine—

"Hey, Dimitri," Glenn says, right behind him. Felix nearly jumps out of his skin. "You made it. Good trip?"

"Glenn! Yes, I—" Dimitri looks from Glenn to his father and back again. "I'm sorry, I have to—Father was just going to introduce us to..."

"Us?" Glenn glances down at him. "You mean Felix?"

"So what," Felix snarls, and yeah, he's being too defensive, but what else is he supposed to do, who cares, when his face already feels like it's about to burst into flames.

Glenn says, "Hey, let me borrow Felix for a minute. Tell Uncle Lambert I'll give him right back."

He's not a fucking tub of boot polish. Felix can't get it out. Dimitri says, "Of course," anything Glenn says, and then just—goes. Just as Felix is thinking seriously about doing some damage to Glenn's instep, never mind that with three weeks to nationals Coach would really let him have it, Dimitri says something to Uncle Lambert, and Uncle Lambert looks back at them.

Uncle Lambert can get way scarier than Dad. Felix clenches his teeth so tight his jaw hurts. "Fine."

Glenn leads him away with one hand on his shoulder. Through the great room, through the dining room, past the tables heaped with food. Everyone seems to think they can just push Felix around today. Two more inches or a gold medal, that's all he wants, that would make people just stop.

They end up in a little alcove with an ugly painting and one tiny light that shines directly in Felix's eyes. Glenn probably did this on purpose.

Felix goes on the offensive. "If this is about that COC woman, I didn't even say anything. I was polite. She was the one who was like, are you even a real athlete?"

"So, look," Glenn says, "I'm just gonna ask."

"And Uncle Lambert was just about to introduce me to one of the ISU dickheads so I was being plenty fucking responsible before you had to interr—"

Glenn says, "Do you have a crush on him?"

Felix's pulse spikes directly through the ceiling.

For a minute all he can do is gape. He's paralyzed. It takes him too long to find his voice. "Who—what? No!"

"You usually lead with the no," Glenn says, fuck him.

"Fuck you! I don't even know who you're talking about!"

Glenn somehow looks both skeptical and pitying, oh little brother. Felix's heart is racing like it's skating short track. This doesn't actually mean Glenn knows anything. He could be doing what Glenn always does, which is act like a smug know-it-all asshole and pretend like he knows everything already until he tricks you into admitting whatever it is he wants to know. Felix has fallen for it a million times before and he's not going to fall for it again.

"I don't know who you're talking about," he repeats, and adds, again, "Fuck you."

"Where did you get such a filthy mouth, anyway?"

"Wha— From you!"

Glenn ignores that, like he always does when something isn't convenient for him. He gives a big heavy fake sigh and says, "I'm talking about Gautier. Sylvain.

"Sylvain?" Felix's voice cracks and shoots up to the top of his register, fuck the chemicals for making him sound like a five-year-old. "No!"

Glenn doesn't look like he believes him. Too fucking bad! He'll die before he tells his nosy older brother that Sylvain Gautier is hot. He'll kill himself right here in the Gautiers' ugly hallway. There will be a Felix-shaped stain on the white carpet for the rest of time and everyone will deserve it, the Gautiers for having a terrible house and Glenn for opening his big mouth and Sylvain for looking like that.

"No," he repeats—hisses. "I do not have a—a—I do not have a crush on Sylvain Gautier. I barely know him any more."

"Heard you were talking earlier."

Felix grinds his jaw. "I barely know him. We were just talking."

Glenn raises an eyebrow. "You call that body language just talking?"

Now Glenn's just trying to be obnoxious. It's bait. It's obviously bait, Felix's brain says, and Felix's mouth snaps, "Maybe you care about—bodies or whatever, but I'd never have a crush on someone unless I knew them. I don't care what they look like."

That was a stupid thing to say. So stupid he can't believe he said it, because he meant it. And Glenn can tell he meant it. And Felix can see, he can see Glenn's thoughts unfolding, lighting on exactly the part that matters, leading him straight to—

Glenn says, "Chill, bud."

"You chill," Felix snaps, which doesn't even make sense, so what. "Besides, I have skating!"

Glenn makes a thoughtful noise. "Yeah, there's that. That's good. You're not that kind of kid."

For a single horrible moment, Felix doesn't know what kind of kid Glenn is talking about. Luckily Glenn doesn't seem to notice. He goes on, "You're not gonna let yourself get distracted from your skating by a crush, or whatever."

Felix sneers. "Only someone really stupid would let a crush distract them from skating."

Glenn snorts. "You're not wrong—"

"Obviously I'm not fucking wrong."

"—but that doesn't stop literally hundreds of teenagers every year. Not to mention plenty of senior skaters who really should be old enough to know better."

Not his dumb know-it-all bullshit again. "Right, because you're so much more mature than everyone else."

Glenn ignores him, which is a bad sign. "Just—look. I'm not gonna say anything like 'promise me.' But remember we talked about this, okay?"

Why does his stupid brother have to look so intense about this. Why does he have to look so serious, his dumb eyes boring into Felix's face. He looks like their dad. He looks like they're talking about something that matters.

Well, they're not. They're not talking about anything. Glenn doesn't know and they're not talking about it. That's the truth. And so is this.

Felix says, "Nothing's more important than skating. Ever."

Glenn punches his shoulder, too hard for a normal person but not hard enough to mean anything. "Good."

For a while, neither of them say anything. Felix wants to leave Glenn in the dust, only he doesn't want to go back to the crowd either. He wants—he wants to go skate a few laps. Just him and the ice, until his face is cool and his head is calm and he's forgotten all about this stupid conversation.

"Sylvain's not actually a bad kid, you know? Behind all the..." Glenn waves a hand. "Stuff."

Felix doesn't know and he doesn't care. "I just fucking said I don't—"

"And I said chill. Not what I meant."

Then what did you mean, since you know so fucking much, Felix wants to say, but he knows it will come out sulky. Besides, he refuses to give Glenn the satisfaction.

"I mean..." Glenn leans back against the wall; crosses his hands behind his head. "We're lucky. Dad's actually pretty good at this."

"At what."

"All of it. Coaching. Strategizing. Sticking up for us. But the other stuff, too."

Felix doesn't know what other stuff he means, and he's not going to ask. "Yeah. Duh."

"But what if he wasn't?"

Weird question. "Then we'd find a different coach.

Glenn smiles, like that's funny. "Yeah. Guess so. You would, anyway."

"So would you. So would Dimitri."

"Maybe."

It's a weird question, and this is a weird conversation. Glenn says, "It just makes you think about the luck of the draw, you know? It could have been different. Really different."

But it wasn't. People think their rink is weird. Unhealthy, insular, claustrophobic. So what? None of those people have won Olympic gold. None of them are going to land a quadruple jump. None of them understand what it means to wake up hearing the sound of your blades in the rink and go to sleep seeing the curve of a layback in front of your eyes. To live every moment of every day with part of yourself always stuck behind on the ice.

They get each other. Him and Dad and Glenn. So does Dimitri. That's why it turned out fine after all. Everyone said it wouldn't work, when Dimitri moved out to train with them. They were wrong, and Dad and Uncle Lambert were right. It feels better to compete, to win, when you know just how good another skater is. It feels better when you know them inside and out, their strengths and their weaknesses and what makes their skating special. And when Felix beats them both, when Dad finally lets him skate seniors and Glenn gets the quad lutz down and Dimitri lives up to all the predictions about his potential, when they're all skating at the peak of their ability at the biggest competition in the world—that's going to feel best of all.

"Uh-oh," Glenn says, laughing. "What's that smile about, kid?"

Normally Felix would say Don't call me that. He'd say, None of your business. He'd punctuate it with a shove or a knee or a jab that made Glenn yelp ow, jesus, how are your elbows so goddamn pointy?

Glenn doesn't do that, because Felix doesn't say that. Instead Glenn gives him a different smile. A nice one, one that doesn't go away, because for once Glenn isn't being an asshole or a know-it-all. He's thinking I know exactly what you mean. Because Felix knows that he and his brother understand each other perfectly, when Felix says, "I was thinking about the Olympics."