Chapter Text
“You want me to leave?”
Nika Volkova-Ayanami sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of untouched zavarka—the kind her mother brewed in a battered old samovar, bitter and over-steeped. Her voice was flat. Not angry. Just tired.
Across from her, her mother nodded slowly. “It’s not forever,” she said, her own mug barely lifted. “Just until things settle down.” The television in the background hummed with muted chatter. Some sports commentary show. Nika had stopped listening to those weeks ago.
Her mother hesitated. “Your grandfather’s house is quiet. You’ll have space. Distance. No one there cares about what happened. It’s a small town.” Nika stared into her zavarka, the surface dark and still.
“They will when they Google me,” she muttered.
“Use your other last name. It's not the one people know. You dyed your hair black. No one will recognize you. You’ll blend right in, especially in Japan.”
“Right.” Nika leaned back in her chair, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “Because a new uniform and black hair magically erase the internet.”
Her mother sighed, soft and frayed. “You need to finish high school somewhere people see you as a person, not a headline. You said you wanted to feel normal again.”
Nika didn’t respond right away.
She watched a plane trail across the grey Moscow sky, framed by the cracked kitchen window. Somewhere, people were going places.
She had been going places once, too.
“Do you think he’ll be weird?” she asked finally. “Grandpa.”
She remembered her childhood visits—a house lined with medals and plaques, each wall a monument to someone who ran faster, jumped higher, trained harder. A whole family tree of athletes, each generation more disciplined than the last. And her grandfather, always at the root of it. He’d wake her at five each morning. Not gently, but with a sharp rap on her door and the expectation she’d be ready immediately. Morning runs, ice baths, protein-heavy breakfasts. He’d draw out training schedules in a thick red pen, like gospel.
"To grow strong," he'd say. "To be a winner."
And she had tried. God, she had tried. How ironic, she thought bitterly, that the girl meant to carry the family’s gold would be the one to tarnish it.
“Probably,” her mother said softly, the faintest smile warming her voice. “But he’ll give you space. And a school nearby already accepted the transfer.”
“Any school would accept the transfer,” Nika grouched.
“Nika.” Her mother shot her a piercing glare.
“I could punch a teacher—”
“Stop—”
“Or set the gym on fire—”
“Nika—”
“—and they’d still let me in with a smile, wouldn’t they?” She leaned back, voice edged with bitterness. “Because whatever I bring to the table must be worth it.”
Nika’s eyes narrowed. "...Cause all I am is something to brag about on a school brochure, right?"
Her mother sighed. "Nika, you're not some prize they hang on a wall” She gently took Nika’s hands into her own, “You’re my daughter, and I’m trying to give you a chance to breathe again."
Nika finally looked up. Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between exhaustion and guilt towards her mother. The sharpness in her shoulders eased, just barely. She looked down at her mug again, at the way the zavarka had gone cold. Her voice, when it returned, was quieter.
A new uniform. A new name. A new town.
Maybe, if she was lucky, she’d just be another face in a crowded hallway. Maybe no one would ask about the medals. Or the scandal. Or why she hadn’t stepped onto the ice in over a year.
“Fine,” she said, standing abruptly, the chair scraping against the tile. “I’ll go.”
Her mother rose with her. “Thank you, Nika.”
She paused at the doorway, her back to the kitchen.
“Don’t thank me,” she whispered. “Just don’t ask me to skate again.”
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The plane shuddered as it touched down on the tarmac, engines dulling to a steady hum. Nika gripped the armrests, eyes fixed on the window’s blurred landscape—unfamiliar, distant, yet somehow hers now. Stepping into the terminal, she inhaled the sharp scent of polished floors and fresh air, stark against Moscow’s cold musk. Her black hoodie was pulled tight, but it did little to ease the imagined weight of stares, even if no one recognized her.
A figure waited near the exit—a tall man with silver-streaked hair and a stern expression that softened fractionally when he saw her.
Her grandfather.
He didn’t smile. Instead, he gave a curt nod. “You look thinner than your last photo. Eat?”
Nika’s lips twitched, but she stayed quiet, hoisting her bag and following him through the sliding doors. The car ride was silent except for the hum of the engine and gravel crunching beneath tires. The house appeared suddenly, tucked behind neatly trimmed hedges—stately but modest, quieter than she’d expected. Inside, walls were lined with framed medals and sepia-toned photos: her grandmother frozen mid-spin, gold medals gleaming beneath glass, and newspaper clippings praising a skating legend. A pang settled deep in Nika’s chest, colder than the jet stream she’d escaped. This was the legacy she carried, whether she wanted it or not. She stepped closer.
The largest photo hung in the center—her grandmother, eyes alight, body mid-air in a jump defying gravity and sense. Her costume sparkled even through faded ink. Below, a golden plaque bore her name in Japanese: Yuna Ayanami. Five-time World Champion. Two-time Olympic Gold Medalist. “The Swan of Hyōgo.” Nika remembered watching that performance. Not on television—no, her grandmother had sat her down in their cramped apartment, pulling out an old USB stick, showing it on a battered laptop screen. Nika had been six. “You see?” Irina had whispered, voice low and proud. “Even in flight, we must be in control.” Nika memorized every frame. Every spin, every landing. That night, she’d fallen asleep mimicking the arm positions beneath her blanket.
And now, this.
The shrine was quiet and untouched, yet somehow deafening. The silence screamed. Her breath hitched as she traced the corner of a glass frame, her reflection warped against the gold. For a moment, she stared into a distorted mirror—her grandmother’s pride shimmering, her own disgrace fractured at the edges. She once imagined herself beside those medals—not just by blood, but in belonging.
Now, she couldn’t even meet their gaze. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
“I didn’t do it,” she whispered—not defensively, but pleadingly. “You know that, right?”
The walls didn’t answer. The medals didn’t blink. In the stillness, something fragile within her shifted—like a hairline crack in ice, unnoticed until it began to spread. Her gaze drifted downward, past medals and displays, landing on a narrow shelf tucked away in the corner. Dust clung thickly, yet couldn't hide the photograph resting there. A simple silver frame, slightly tarnished. She bent slowly, breath catching.
In the photo, a younger Nika—seven at most—stood beside her grandmother on the ice. They spun hand-in-hand, caught forever in motion. Nika’s cheeks were rosy from the cold, mouth open in joyful laughter. Irina looked down at her with something rare—a soft, unguarded smile. Not a performance smile. Not camera-ready. Something genuine. Proud.
She remembered that day. Her first real solo practice, landing a clean axel. Her grandmother had applauded from the bleachers. Later, after the award ceremony, they’d skated together, where her grandmother took no time to show off her various spins that she could still pull off.
Gently, she placed her fingertips against the glass. She hadn’t just admired her grandmother—she had aspired to become her. And for a while, she'd been on her way. Now, she couldn’t even bring herself to lace her skates.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A sharp knock rattled Nika awake, jarring her out of a restless sleep.
“Five o'clock, Nika. Time to get up.” Her grandfather’s voice was firm, matter-of-fact—without warmth, yet without harshness either. She groaned into her pillow, muffling the sound. “Five more minutes?”
“Champions don’t bargain with time.”
She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. The air held the faintest chill, biting at her skin. It reminded her of countless mornings before—her breath clouding the cold Moscow air, muscles sore, body exhausted but alive. She hadn’t realized how much she'd missed this feeling.
Pulling on a tracksuit, she laced her running shoes methodically, automatically, as though her body remembered the rhythm even if her heart had forgotten it. Outside, the streets were quiet and dark, the air sharp and crisp. A dim pink glow began to trace the horizon, illuminating the narrow roads like brushstrokes of watercolors. Her grandfather stood waiting by the gate, stopwatch in hand. He nodded at her silently, gesturing down the street.
“Stay on the right side, the sidewalk loops back here. It's roughly five kilometers. I’ll be waiting here when you're done.”
She began to run, her body falling naturally into stride. Each step echoed steadily, heartbeat pounding in sync with her movements. Her muscles tightened and stretched, protesting quietly, then relaxing into familiar submission.
As the fatigue set in, her mind drifted to another early morning run. One from years ago, after a grueling night at the rink:
(Flashback: 2 years before Vancouver 2010 Olympic Games - Moscow, Novogorsk Training Center)
“You're done today,” Coach Sergei ordered, voice echoing through the empty arena. The ice glistened beneath Nika’s skates, her legs trembling with fatigue.
Her breath came in short, painful gasps. “I can do better,” she insisted, though her lungs burned. She remembered how badly she wanted to qualify for the 2010 games.
Sergei crossed his arms, frowning. “You’ve already done the your long programme five times, Nika. That’s enough for today.”
“No.” She shook her head, determination shining fiercely in her eyes. “Not until it’s all clean.”
“Nika,” he warned gently, stepping onto the ice. “Ambition is admirable, but you’ll destroy yourself chasing perfection.” She hadn’t listened then—had thrown herself into another spin, another jump, pushing her limits until the ice blurred beneath her. She knew her grandma didn't have many years left. Then her legs gave way, crumpling beneath her, sending her sprawling onto the ice.
Sergei helped her up, gripping her shoulders firmly. “Enough, Nika. Rest is part of training, too.” She’d wanted to argue. But her body was done, too spent to protest.
Back in the present, Nika reached the endpoint, gasping slightly. Her grandfather glanced at his stopwatch and nodded, approvingly.
“20:24. You need to work on your stamina. Tomorrow, faster.”
She bent forward, hands on knees, catching her breath. Despite the burn in her chest and legs, something inside her felt lighter. Clearer. Breakfast was served exactly at six-thirty. A tray neatly arranged with grilled salmon, steamed rice, miso soup, a perfectly boiled egg, and pickles. Her grandfather placed it before her with measured precision.
She hesitated, eyes lingering over the meal. “I’m not really hungry.”
“Food isn’t about hunger. It’s protein,” he replied quietly, sitting across from her. “You eat to sustain yourself, not to indulge.”
She sighed softly, picking up the chopsticks. But as she began to eat, warmth filled her, comforting somehow. It was strange—being surrounded by structure again, the rigor familiar, the routine predictable. She found herself grateful for it, even as she fought against the lingering resentment. Because when she was busy, she forgot—about the whispers, the scandal, the ghost of her grandmother’s disappointed gaze.
When she was moving, running, eating on a strict schedule, there wasn’t room to feel broken. After breakfast, he handed her a printed schedule, meticulously detailed in careful handwriting.
“Classes, homework, Japanese language study, physical conditioning, recovery stretching. Follow it strictly.”
She scanned it slowly, raising a brow. “You forgot to pencil in breathing.”
He didn’t smile, but his expression softened slightly. “Breathing comes naturally. Discipline does not.”
Her eyes skimmed over the precise time-blocks, the meticulous detail. A faint smile twitched at her lips before she could stop it. It was oddly comforting, seeing her life broken down into manageable pieces. Not trapped—just structured. Controllable. Her grandfather noticed her quiet reaction, folding his arms and studying her carefully. Finally, he spoke again, his tone softer, reflective.
“Your grandmother started every day like this too, you know. Even after retirement.”
She looked up sharply, chest tightening slightly at the mention of Yuna.
“Did she...did she like it?” Her voice was quieter than she intended.
He hesitated, thoughtfully choosing his words. “Your grandmother understood discipline differently than most. She respected it. She once told me routines made her feel safe. Grounded.” Nika swallowed thickly, looking back down at the schedule in her hands. Safe. Grounded. Words she hadn’t associated with skating—or discipline—in so long. She’d forgotten they could mean anything other than pressure, expectation, or fear.
“She’d be glad you’re here,” her grandfather continued softly. “That much I know.”
She didn’t trust herself to answer. Instead, she nodded once, abruptly standing to clear the dishes. As she washed them carefully under warm water, her mind wandered. Her grandfather’s words lingered quietly, a gentle reassurance beneath the discipline she’d once feared.
Maybe, she thought quietly, discipline didn’t always have to mean pain. Maybe, for now, it could simply mean something else to think about—other than how far she’d fallen.
Other than the ice she no longer trusted beneath her feet.
~~~~~
Bonus: Here's a sketch I did of Nika (post scandal and black hair dye) that inspired me to write this fic! She was pretty fun to draw.
