Chapter Text
It's early December, and Vi doesn't know where she is.
Well, she does know, technically: she's in an ice arena in some city in southern France, in a hallway just outside the rink. There's the faint sound of music playing through the walls, some melody that's too muffled for Vi to recognize. But enough time has passed that she knows the competition is over, and so it must be the medal ceremony. When she looks up from her feet, her gaze settles on a window. The climate here is too warm for snow, but there's still fog on the windows, blurring the buildings of the coastal city beyond the arena. The hall is, understandably, quite sparse at this moment, but the medal ceremony only lasts for so long; the spectators are due to disperse soon. The sky seems to still be a grayish-blue, so it's late afternoon, at the latest.
But that's only where she knows her body is. Her mind is somewhere far away, in a place she doesn't know. She's unsure if it even has a name. When she stops leaning on the wall and begins to walk, her body moves on autopilot, away from the arena and down the long hallway. She doesn't know where she's going. The locker room, maybe. Her duffel bag is still in there, with all her regular clothes.
Vi walks funny as she makes her way down the hall, trying to put as little weight on her right foot as possible. There's a sizable crack in the heel of one of the boots tucked under her arm, which she had been forced to skate on for the entirety of her free program. She thought her skates had at least one competition left in them, and like an idiot, had neglected to buy a spare before leaving for France. She can already hear in her head Vander talking her ear off about ensuring she always has a spare.
I couldn't even afford two tickets for the damn flight, she answers to the hypothetical chastising Vander in her head. What makes you think I could've afforded a spare set of skates?
She wishes she just bit the bullet and paid for two tickets. Maybe she would've done better if her coach was there—well, former coach, she supposes. She broke ties with Rosalina just before leaving for the Grand Prix Final. To her credit, she lasted longer than the others, but in the end Vi kept pushing back against what Rosalina thought was best. But Vi can't help but curse herself for not holding out just long enough to get through this competition.
The two or so minutes she spent in the kiss-and-cry keep replaying in her mind like a feedback loop. With no coach, she sat on that bench alone, nauseous and her ankle screaming at her and her heart pounding so hardly it felt as though it might have stopped any second. Thousands—tens of thousands, maybe, if she includes those watching from a screen—watching her, aching and alone, waiting for the dreaded score.
Those two minutes she had been clinging to blind hope for dear life—the hope that somehow, some way, it wouldn't be as bad as she was hoping, even though she fell on two jumps and underrotated two others. When that cursed 187.49 was announced, she had barely even processed it, the pounding in her head so bad that it was hard to focus on anything else.
Sixth place, in a normal event, probably wouldn't feel like a suckerpunch to Vi if it weren't a competition where she was skating against only five other people. And after she had done so well in previous events this year, too.
She comes back to herself a little bit when she comes to a stop outside of the women's locker room. She pushes the door open and the lights automatically turn on, and she lets out a breath of relief. The other skaters aren't back yet. She has a few minutes, at least.
Unceremoniously, she plops down on a bench and pulls her phone out of the inner pocket of her jacket. There's several notifications, but two stick out: a text from Vander, and a text from her sister.
Dad: We need to talk when you have a moment.
Vi sighs. She never knows when his texts have a positive or negative connotation. She swipes the notification away, and looks at Powder's.
Pow-Pow: lmk when you get the chance to call <333
That, Vi can ascertain the tone of. She opens her contacts and presses call on Powder's number.
One.
Two.
Three.
Fo—
"Vi! That was fast," Powder says, far too cheery for both the situation and hand and the time back home.
"You seem… energetic," Vi says. "'S like, five in the morning. Why are you up?"
"Oh, I've been up all night. I was watching the free skate with Ekko."
"With Ekko?" Vi can’t help the groan that escapes her. She rubs her face with her hand. "I… fuck, I’m sorry, Pow."
"No, hey, don’t be sorry. You did your best, and we’re so, so proud of you. I know Dad is."
Vi chews on the flesh on the inside of her cheek. "Yeah," she says. "Hope Ekko enjoyed watching me fall on my face."
"Are you okay, by the way? The cameras showed you stumbling a bit after the skate."
"Yeah, I… I think I’ll see someone before I head home. But it’s probably nothing," she assures Powder, despite the pounding in her head saying otherwise. She breathes in, then out. "I… I think I just need some time alone. Dad wants to talk, so… gotta psych myself up for that."
"I’m sure he wants to congratulate you, too," she says. Vi can hear the encouraging smile, but she isn’t convinced.
"Yeah. I’m sure," she affirms, trying to sound genuine. "I’ll text you later. When I'm at the hotel. Bye, Pow-Pow."
She disconnects, and her hand falls to her lap. It’s quiet in the bathroom—too quiet, even. You would think that silence is what she needs, given the pounding in her head, but with the only noise being the occasional drip of a faucet on the other side of the room, the pounding is the only thing Vi can focus her attention on.
The reality of her situation has both set in and has not. It feels like a dream—maybe the lack of sleep has made that worse. She’s had probably more caffeine pills than she should have today, but the fall on her triple Axel brought the headache back with a vengeance.
She stares up at the gray ceiling, and her vision swims a little. She still has her costume on: a black two-piece with pale blue accents, studded with rhinestones along the shoulders. It's mostly covered by her faded gray track jacket, but the polyester fabric still clings to her skin, making her suddenly feel somehow suffocated. The eyeshadow she put on has sweated itself off, and her hair is stuck to her forehead.
Vi embarrassed herself in front of everyone. And the entirety of her family watched her live, too, something they never do; usually they wait until the morning to watch playbacks, or hear the news straight from Vi herself.
She forces herself to get up and open her locker, and pulls out her duffel bag. She first slips her broken skates inside, then pulls her top off and slips into a threadbare gray t-shirt. She pulls down her pants to change into a pair of jeans. While her body obeys her commands, the disconnect is still there; like she has to force herself to go through with the motions, like trying to run underwater.
This has to be a dream. A really, really bad dream.
"Hello," says the voice, "is Violet in here?"
Oh, fuck my life.
She scrambles to zip up her pants and shove her costume haphazardly into her bag, and turns to meet whoever has just walked into the room. Standing before her is a girl, a bit taller than Vi herself, with navy hair tied back into a messy ponytail. There’s a sparkly silver dress poking out from under her deep blue jacket, which has a Union Jack on the left sleeve and C. Kiramman embroidered on the right breast.
Ah. Caitlyn Kiramman. The gold medalist. The absolute last person Vi wants to see.
She's the bane of many female skaters' existence. Tall for their sport, and yet seemingly light as a feather, and always making her competitors scramble for silver. Jealousy doesn't even begin to describe most people's feelings towards Caitlyn Kiramman. Although, really, in Vi's case it isn't jealousy—far from it. She isn't really sure what she feels towards Caitlyn; right now, when she's still reeling from such a loss, all she can feel is anger. What she is sure of is that seeing Caitlyn isn't making her feel any better.
"Yep," Vi answers, crossing her arms and leaning against a locker. "And it's just Vi. What d’ya want?"
"You weren't at the medal ceremony," she says. She puts her hands behind her back, awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I was wondering if you were alright."
"I’m fine," Vi answers, letting more venom slip than she intended. She pushes herself away from the locker to stand upright. "Christ, why can’t I get a couple minutes alone?"
Caitlyn takes a step or two back, mildly bewildered. She just stares, unsure of what to say, and Vi sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"I…" She purses her lips. "I’m sorry. My head has been killing me since that fall."
"We have a medic on call, you know," Caitlyn reminds her. "You should have checked in with him. He’s quite nice. He helped me when I sprained my wrist—"
"I’m aware." Vi inhales and exhales through her nose. "I’ll be fine."
"Do you want me to accompany you?" she asks, her hand starting to reach out. But Vi quickly puts some distance between them, stepping back and out of Caitlyn's reach.
"No," she swiftly shoots down. "I’m good. Thanks."
She steps over to her locker and grabs her duffel bag, then slams the locker shut with much more force than she intended. She sidesteps Caitlyn, and slings the bag over her shoulder as she steps out, marching down the hall towards the entrance. Spectators have already begun to fill the hall, but that works in her favor—she can easily slip through the crowd. Everyone will be looking for the medalists, anyways.
"Violet!"
Motherfucker. She should've put her hood up.
Vi sighs and turns in the direction of the voice. The source turns out to be a pair—two young girls in matching clothes, one blonde and one brunette with dyed pink highlights. They step forward, and one holds up a pair of white boots, covered in scribbles.
"Can you sign my skates?" the girl with the boots asks gleefully. The other holds up a Sharpie.
She squints slightly, trying to place the girl's face for a moment before it clicks, and her expression softens a tad: she's one of the junior skaters. "Um… yeah, sure."
She takes the pen and uncaps it, and scribbles a signature near the toe of the right boot. She caps the pen and hands it back, and the girls giggle.
"Thank you!" says the girl with the boots, clutching them close to her chest. They quickly scurry off, but Vi's eyes remain fixed on them even as they dash across the hall, searching for other athletes.
The girl with dyed hair reminds Vi of herself, oddly enough. At least, of herself when she was younger; at her first international competitions, it felt too good to be true, being in the same space as athletes she idolized. She remembers asking Powder to hit her when she first qualified for the Junior Grand Prix.
She misses that wonder a lot. She isn't sure when it disappeared.
The girls skid to a stop, waving at someone. A figure starts walking towards them, and when her eyes meet the figure in question, her eyes narrow.
Of course. Caitlyn. Who else could it have been?
The woman flanking her, a tall, muscular woman with short, grayed hair, talks to Caitlyn as she signs the junior skater's boot. Then the other girl pulls out her phone, and she crouches down to take a photo.
Then the girls scurry off once again, somewhere out of sight. Through the background noise, Vi can make out what the older man is saying to Caitlyn.
"...overrotating is an issue," he says. His voice is deep and gravelly. "Your Axel needs some work, too—your landing is shaky."
"The judges didn’t call it," Vi hears Caitlyn counter, in that posh English accent that makes Vi unconsciously clench her fist. She shouldn't be this put on edge over something so simple, but she's already at the end of her rope, and the sight of Caitlyn Kiramman feels like salt being rubbed in a wound. "And I didn't overrotate this time."
"You cannot trust them to overlook such a thing in the future, Caitlyn. And even if you did not this time, you still need to practice it more."
A man in a trench coat with a microphone quickly approaches them, and he appears so quickly that Caitlyn jumps a bit, taken by surprise.
"Miss Kiramman—this is your third back-to-back Grand Prix Final win," he says, his French accent thick. "What is next?"
The skater and her companion exchange glances. She takes a small step back.
"Um—no comment," she answers. She gives an awkward look and steps away, and the reporter is quickly scared off by the older woman's glare.
Caitlyn suddenly turns her head, and Vi stiffens up. Her expression shifts to one of mild curiosity as she realizes that Vi is staring at her, and she turns her whole body around.
Shit, how long has Vi been staring?
Caitlyn waves—a minute, polite movement of her hand back and forth. There's a smile on her face, but it's awkward and apologetic.
Vi doesn't wave back.
With a slightly furrowed brow, Vi simply turns around and starts walking towards the exit, much to the confusion of the gold medalist, whose hand slowly drops back to her side. But then she's pulled in another direction by the older man, and she disappears into the crowd.
The December cold quickly sets in as Vi steps out of the arena. It's warmer than she'd be used to, given the climate, but with a stiff breeze sweeping through, and only the flimsy jacket to cover her thin shirt, she wraps her arms around herself in some vain attempt to preserve warmth.
The text from Vander flits through her mind again. She sighs. The call can wait. The only thing she wants is to sleep.
What a fucking joke of a skate that was.
Three Months Later
Vi's apartment is quite barren. That's to be suspected, one might suppose: she lives alone, and much of her meager income goes back into skating costs, of which only have grown higher and higher since her waning results in competitions.
There's little in the way of decorations, save for some pictures hanging on the wall beside her front door and the medals she has hanging on a rack from her room. Vander has most of them in a box somewhere, but her more recent ones decorate her bedroom wall, beside her small collection of books and cheap particle board desk. Much of her furniture is thrifted—even the television on the other side of the living room. Of course, there's still the money that Vander sends in to help supplement the costs, but he can only give Vi so much.
And Powder isn't helping with her attempts at frugality, given that she has the appetite of a rhinoceros and could very easily eat Vi out of house and home.
She's busied herself in the kitchen, making chocolate chip cookies that are supposedly mind-blowing. Vi doesn't even dare take a look at how the process is going, knowing that there is almost definitely a mess that she'll inevitably have to clean up once Powder tires herself out and falls asleep on the couch.
But while Powder makes a mess out of her apartment, Vi keeps herself occupied. She has headphones on to block the noise of Powder mucking about, playing some lo-fi music video that's just loud enough to keep her focus on her screen. There's a mug of lukewarm black coffee on the little scratched-up coffee table in front of her, and her laptop is open to a three-page document, with at least a dozen other tabs in the background all related to nuclear fusion.
She deeply regrets taking this astronomy class, but she needed one more science class to fulfill her graduation requirements, and the reviews for this professor were decent enough—it was probably the best option she was going to get this term. But fuck, astronomy is not her strong suit.
Powder enters her vision with a plate full of cookies and a bowl full of microwaved popcorn. When Vi pulls off her headphones, Powder haphazardly sets them on the coffee table.
"Here ya go, one set of delicious, freshly-made cookies."
Vi smiles a little. Despite her dread over cleaning the kitchen, the cookies do smell quite nice. "Thanks, Pow," she says, before resuming her typing.
Powder doesn't comment on her not partaking. She plops herself down on the couch next to Vi, and picks up a cookie. She takes an obscenely large bite, humming in appreciation of her own work.
She swallows. "Y'think Kiramman just… like, died or something?"
Vi looks up from her laptop at the sound of out-of-the-blue question. She raises an eyebrow, and her hands that were typing on the keyboard quickly still.
It's been months since Vi last saw Caitlyn Kiramman—since anyone saw her, actually. After the Grand Prix Final, she disappeared from the ice completely, having silently pulled out of the European Championships and not going to Worlds, either. She's seemingly vanished off the face of the earth; no interviews, no social media updates, nothing.
But it's not really as if that did Vi any favors; the past season hasn't been particularly kind to her. After the fiasco in Marseilles, she ended up spraining her ankle just before the U.S. Championships, and even though she competed anyways, she failed to qualify for Four Continents or for the World Championships. Even if she did qualify, Vander probably would've made her pull out regardless to keep her from worsening her ankle sprain.
She's tried not to think much of other skaters. (Given she pulled multiple all-nighters to watch the women's event at Worlds, she's failed miserably, but Powder doesn't know that.) She's especially tried to not think about Caitlyn Kiramman—but Powder is unfortunately right. Her absence is very odd.
"And… what makes you think that, exactly?" she asks slowly.
"She hasn't been heard from since the Final. She just, like, disappeared. She was supposed to compete in Europeans, too."
"Maybe she got injured," Vi suggests, shrugging. "Or hell, maybe she retired. She probably just wanted to be left alone."
Powder groans. "God, you really have no interest in gossip, do you? Don't you think it's weird she vanished off the face of the earth, even though she had a Worlds win in the bag?"
"I couldn't give two shits about what Caitlyn Kiramman is doing. Or anyone, really." Vi sighs and turns back to her laptop, leaning back against the couch. "I got bigger things to worry about. Like this stupid astronomy paper."
"Hey—you promised you'd take a break." Powder scoots closer, keeping one hand on the bowl in her lap. "C'mon. When is this due?"
Vi glances back at the laptop. "Wednesday."
"Great!" Powder pushes the laptop shut. "So you have time. Let's watch Frankenstein together."
With a sigh, Vi sets the laptop on the worn-down coffee table. and shoves her hand into the popcorn bowl before Powder can even pull up Netflix. After swallowing a handful, she takes a deep breath, and for a moment, lets her eyes slip shut as the episode begins to play.
Vi chews on the popcorn in her mouth. "Honestly, of all the books I got forced to read in high school—" she swallows her food, "never had to read Frankenstein, surprisingly."
Powder turns her head slightly. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. Wish I did in hindsight, though. My English teacher had really bad taste in books. I think he retired before you got to him. He made us read this—God, I forgot the name—this book where this family was, like, carting some lady's dead body for days on end. And that was the whole fucking story. It dragged on for so long. I thought I was gonna lose it."
"Yeesh." Powder grabs her own handful of popcorn. "Well, you're gonna love this."
"I'm sure, just—try to not spoil it for me again this time, okay?" Vi grabs a cookie.
Powder rolls her eyes a little, but she complies, mumbling a drawn out "fine". And so they fall into quiet for a few minutes as the episode begins to play.
Unfortunately, for Vi, her body has other plans. With exhaustion having tugged at her the whole day, the movie fails to keep her focus, and so her eyes begin to slip shut, her head tilting a bit to the side.
Powder has tried, as best as she can, but there's only so much that can pull Vi away from the fact virtually everyone she knows is on the other side of the world, while she's stuck here, at home, trying to not seem at least totally pathetic. But it is pathetic, isn't it? She's supposed to be among the best of the best. She should be there. She should be there alongside them.
A strong drink sounds really good right now.
"See—I think Elizabeth's costumes are kinda meh. I know her thing is bugs, but the color design looks out of pla—" Powder pauses as she looks to Vi, and her tone shifts to something just slightly disappointed. "Wow. Bored already?"
Vi's eyes snap open, and she blinks rapidly. "No, I just—" She pushes her hair out of her face. "I'm tired. That's all."
Powder raises an eyebrow as she looks Vi up and down. "You stayed up to watch Worlds, didn't you?"
"I…" Vi groans, her shoulders falling. "So what if I did?"
Powder raises her arms. "I told you not to! Even Dad told you not to."
"Can you blame me for wanting to watch something I should've gone to?" Vi sits upright. "I was supposed to be there. If I hadn't fucked up so badly at Nationals—"
"Vi. You fucked up, and that's all. The only thing we can do is just…" She waves her hand around. "Just move on. Okay?"
"Move on?" Vi repeats. "Move on? Do you know how much money that's been sunk into this? How much time and effort I've put in—how much Dad's put in? Skating is my life and you know that, Pow."
Powder clenches her fists and purses her lips. She inhales through her nose.
Vi exhales, and lowers her head, holding her head in her hands. "I'm sorry, I just…"
"No. It's fine." Powder exhales through her mouth. "You know I didn't mean stop skating, right?"
When Vi says nothing, Powder leans forward, trying to catch her eye. Her eyes narrow just slightly.
"Vi. You're not thinking of retiring, are you?"
Again, Vi says nothing.
"Vi."
"I—" Vi pauses. "I don't want to lie to you, Powder. The past season has kept handing me bullshit after fucking bullshit. I don't…" She exhales. "I don't know how much more I can take. I've had such shitty skates this year. I was fifth place at nationals. Fifth."
"Vi, that's exactly what I meant." Powder picks up the popcorn bowl and scoots closer, and takes Vi's hand. She squeezes it tight, like a snake trying to force the life out of a mouse. "Move on and do better next time. As in, don't give up. You are a good skater and you are only twenty-one, for the love of God. You're too young to retire."
Vi can't find it in herself to meet Powder's eyes.
Powder purses her lips. "Okay. We're going to the rink tomorrow, okay? Then we're going to decide your music for your next programs, and we'll go over comp outfits. Got it?"
Vi sighs. "Powder—"
"Nope. Not hearing it. We're going over there and we're gonna have fun." She squeezes Vi's hand again. "Got it?"
Vi looks down at their joined hands. Her shoulders fall, and she exhales through her nose. "Yeah. Okay."
Powder beams. "Good."
And when Powder eventually falls asleep, just as Vi predicted, she gets up and to her slight surprise, finds a much smaller mess than she expected. Maybe being forced to live in a shoebox with a stranger actually did Powder some good for once.
Her mind wanders to the subject of programs as she wipes down the counter. She's followed a similar theme for the past few years: something classical for her short programs, something modern for her free skates—usually something Vander suggests, although that's become rarer as she's grown older. She honestly hates the classical music, but it's a neutral choice for judging, and so she's resigned herself to letting it be.
Vi glances in Powder's direction while she dumps dirty paper towels into the trash, and sighs softly. Maybe something intense. Like Vivaldi—no, Vivaldi is overdone. Powder's best suggestion would probably be showtunes, which for Vi is a hard no.
She steps back over to the couch and tugs a blanket over Powder, then turns the television off. Her phone reads 11:54, and she resigns herself to tucking herself in for an early night. The decision of music can wait for a day, at least.
The skating rink is deader than Vi has ever remembered it.
It's public skating hours, but the number of attendees are sparse: only a few children with their parents and one or two couples. In earlier years, the rink would be far more packed, although Vi would usually reserve a window in the evening or early morning for her private practice. The rink owner probably would've let them in after closing without a reservation, but Vi hasn't talked to Sevika in a minute, and she'd have to go through Vander to get any favors granted.
"Been a while since I got on the ice," Powder says as she finishes lacing her rented skates, white and worn-down from years of use, smelling like something that makes her nose scrunch up, but is definitely hiding something much worse. She stands, and stretches her hands to the ceiling, her shoulders popping with the movement.
"I can tell," Vi comments, pausing in her movement to take off her guards. Instead, she turns around from the edge of the ice. "Those laces aren't tight enough, c'mon, you're gonna flail around like a scared chicken."
Sighing dramatically, Powder steps back a little and to give Vi space to kneel down, allowing Vi to undo her laces and retie them. Vi does the same for Powder's right boot, before standing back up and actually taking off her guards for real this time. She hands them to Powder to shove into her backpack, and takes off.
Powder stumbles a bit as she steps onto the ice. Despite Vi's prowess, her sister never really caught the same interest in skating, and with increasingly less time spent together, Powder's lack of confidence in skates really shows. When Vi realizes she's still struggling to not fall over, she turns around, and starts laughing a little.
"Pow—Powder, grab the wall, you're gonna fall on your ass," she says as she approaches her sister.
"If you weren't going so dang fast, maybe I wouldn't." Powder skids to a stop, grabbing onto the wall as she wobbles. Only once she regains her balance does she let go, and hesitantly starts to move again.
Reluctantly, Vi moves at a slower pace, and Powder finally begins to get the hang of it once again. She pushes herself forward with one foot, and lets herself glide alongside her sister.
"Does Dad know you were thinking of retirement?" Powder asks. Were—as if it's not still very much a possibility. Oh, how Vi wishes she could share Powder's optimism.
Vi turns her gaze forward, and shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket. "No. I didn't plan to. I… you know how he gets."
Powder hums in understanding. "Glad you didn't. Do y'know what you wanna skate to next season yet?"
Vi shakes her head. "I'm… still figuring it out. I need something… new, I guess. I feel like I'm getting repetitive."
"There's always Broadway."
Vi sighs. "Powder, for the last time, I am not using something from a musical."
Powder sighs dramatically. "Where's your sense of wonder? Have some whimsy in your programs for once. The junior skaters love Wicked."
"You're the one who gets to imagine my skates. I'm the one who actually has to do them and practice them over and over and over again." Vi turns herself around so she can move backwards. "I think if I had to listen to a Broadway song several times over for multiple days of the week, I would lose it a little." She slips her hands into her pockets, and exhales. "But.. I was thinking of maybe trying to finally get a quad jump in."
"A quad?" Powder slowly skids to a stop, leaning against the barrier once more for stability. "Are… you sure? Remember the last time you attempted a quad?"
"Yes, and my shoulder came out fine."
"You dislocated it!"
"And it got fixed quickly, didn't it? And you know it takes more than that to take me out."
"Dad wouldn't like it."
"I'm an adult, Pow." Vi comes to a slow stop. She pulls her hands from her pockets and crosses her arms. "I know my limits."
Powder crosses her arms in return. "Do you, now? 'Cause someone who knows her limits wouldn't be cycling through coaches like her life depends on it because they won't let her do whatever she wants."
Before Vi can open her mouth to respond, Powder gasps. Vi blinks, and Powder pushes herself away from the barrier, pointing to something behind her sister.
"Oh my God," she says, eyes wide and mouth agape. "It's Kiramman."