Chapter Text
It starts with quiet restraint. With gloved hands brushing in the cold air of a near-empty rink, with the hum of blades cutting ice like a secret only the two of you know. You and Ilia Malinin have been skating together for three years. Best friends. Pairs partners. He does singles too - always singles - and the world watches him for that. But the rink? The late nights? The choreography sessions where your foreheads nearly touch? That’s yours.
And you are in love with him. He knows. He absolutely knows. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. It slips out of him one night. You’re both sitting on the boards after practice, legs dangling, shoulders brushing. The rink lights are dimmed; it feels like confession lighting. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I want it,” you whisper, eyes on your skates. “I want it so bad.”
He goes still. You don’t have to define it. Not the way his hands linger at your waist during lifts. Not the way he looks at you before a throw jump like you’re something breakable and precious. He inhales slowly.
“I can’t,” he says. Soft. Almost pained. You nod. You expected it. “I can’t,” he repeats, firmer now. “You know I can’t.”
Because he’s building something. Because he’s chasing Olympic gold. Because he doesn’t want to ruin what you have. Because he doesn’t trust himself not to lose focus if he lets himself love you.
He keeps it platonic after that. Disciplined. Professional. Even when you’re pressed chest to chest in a death spiral and your heart is a mess of I want it, I want it, I want it bad. He pulls away first every time. He never kisses you. You compete. You win nationals. You place at Worlds. Cameras flash, commentators talk about chemistry, about tension. They have no idea. In the kiss-and-cry, he squeezes your hand. Friendship. Always friendship. And you smile for the cameras like it doesn’t hurt.
It changes slowly. Not because he suddenly wants you. But because you’re tired. Tired of rehearsing restraint. Tired of loving someone who looks at you like a problem he has to solve instead of a person he could choose. One night, after another almost-moment, another brush of lips that doesn’t land, you pull back first.
“I can’t,” you say. He blinks. You swallow. “I can’t keep wanting something you’ve already decided isn’t going to happen.”
He looks like you’ve slapped him. But you mean it. You finish the season. You thank him for everything. You tell him you’re stepping back from pairs. He assumes you’ll come back. You don’t.
Six months later, he sees you across a rink in Toronto. You’re laughing. Your hand is resting casually on your new partner’s shoulder as he spins you into a lift. Your new partner. You’re glowing. Ilia’s stomach drops. He hadn’t thought this through. He thought you would always orbit him.
I want it, I want it, I want it bad. It hits him during your first competition against each other. He’s there for singles now. You’re there for pairs. He watches you skate with someone else. Watches the trust in your eyes when you’re thrown into the air. Watches the way you land and immediately reach for another hand. Not his. He can’t breathe. He finds you after practice, heart pounding like he’s about to step into a quad axel.
“I was wrong,” he says. You already know what he means. “I want it,” he says, voice breaking slightly. “I want it. I want it so bad.”
You stare at him. God, you used to pray to hear those words. He steps closer. “I thought I had time. I thought you’d-” He swallows. “I didn’t think you’d move on.”
You smile, and it’s gentle. And that’s worse. “I had to,” you say.
His hands twitch like he wants to grab you.
“I can make it work,” he insists. “I can balance it. I can-”
You shake your head. And for the first time, you understand him perfectly. “I can’t,” you say. He freezes. “I can’t go back to wanting someone who isn’t sure about me.”
His eyes go glassy. “I’m sure now.”
“Now,” you repeat softly. There’s no anger in your voice. Just clarity. “You taught me how to let something go when it might cost me everything.”
He exhales like he’s been punched.
You step back. “I can’t,” you say again. And this time, it’s steady.
At the next competition, you don’t look for him in the stands. He watches you anyway. When you skate, you’re fearless. When you bow, your partner kisses your temple. Ilia looks down at the ice and finally understands what he asked you to do all those months ago. Let go. And this time, he’s the one whispering it to himself. “I can’t,” he breathes. But he wants it. God, he wants it so bad.