Chapter Text
The room is a total mess. Evgenia is in the middle of packing up her apartment and moving out, headed for a much nicer place: a home with Ildar. Just the thought of it fills her heart with lightness. Hope, pure and bright, stronger than she's felt it in a long time. They will have a big dining table, enough to comfortably host both sides of the family. There will be windows that let the morning sunlight in.
Part of her flinches from that hope. She has become accustomed to having the rug pulled from under her. But the heart is a stubborn creature and she cannot help but dream of him, and of herself, in the bed they will share for the rest of their lives.
Usually, moving means ruthlessly culling all of her stuff. This time, it's the opposite process. Their new house is a lot larger, and Mama is thinking of downsizing as she gets older. So Evgenia finds herself here, just after midnight, sorting through childhood paraphernalia. She hasn't found much worth keeping. The medals from childhood competitions can come, because they are small. The trophies are to be donated or discarded.
Parsing through old costumes takes more time. She needs to judge their condition, age, significance, and value.
Surrounded by mounds of cloth, Evgenia sorts through outfit after outfit before pulling out one that gives her pause. She doesn't immediately recognise it. Purple and black, with a high collar and bow. Black tights to match. The zipper is shiny and takes a few good tugs to move, so it probably hasn't seen any serious use. It's too small to be a scrapped show costume.
"Make a wish."
Evgenia looks over her shoulder, startled by the unexpected voice. She is the only person home at the moment. The room is empty.
Nevertheless, the sound continues, in a whisper she strains to hear. The voice is strangely familiar, if only she could locate the source. "One day, you'll also be my enemy. It's fine… I'll keep wishing for… can be happy."
Evgenia turns back and finds herself face-to-face with the Khrustalny lockers. Instead of the strange costume, Luna is in her hands, along with the familiar jacket of the Russian national team. Evgenia laughs, because what else can she do? She laughs because this was not where she expected to go insane. Her psychologist would be hearing about this.
She places Luna and her jacket on the bench next to her. The bench is solid. She was half-expecting her hand to go through it like she was a ghost. The temperature, sounds, and even the smell of the room have somehow changed without her noticing. She pulls a phone from the jacket pocket, filled with dread but also certainty as to what she will find.
The lockscreen activates at a touch, showing the date to be February 1st, 2018.
Evgenia opens the front-facing camera with shaking hands and a stranger stares back, which is absurd, because it's literally her own face. Her own eighteen-year-old face, a hand covering her mouth in horror. Her hair is long and brittle, and her eyes are sunken, and her nose is… back to how it was. She moves her hand over each feature, confirming by touch what her eyes already show.
Her body. Fucking hell, her body. Everything hurt so much, but her legs felt strong in a way they hadn't been in years. She wants to get on the ice right this minute and start jumping triples.
There are two knocks at the door and another familiar voice. "Zhenechka. You're late."
What the actual fuck.
Only thirteen years of Pavlovian instinct allow Evgenia to respond in a somewhat normal manner. "Sorry, Eteri Georgievna. I'll be there in a minute."
"You cannot afford any distractions at this point in your career. You know this, so stop being lazy and insolent."
By the time Evgenia steps into the gym, her blood pressure still hasn't recovered from whatever the fuck is happening. A fever dream, a second chance, a prophecy.
Fuck it, she thinks, might as well go along with it while it lasts.
Her mind does not have the capacity to process this insanity, because she is immediately distracted by the environment of the dance studio. Wooden floors, solid barres, and mirrored walls. The room is filled with girls, all baby-soft skin and hardened eyes. Some of whom she has not seen in years, and some that she still works with.
Warmup has already started so her arrival is thankfully overlooked, apart from a passing smile from Anna. Evgenia struggles to return it as she slides into place at the end of the line. Assuming this was not some extended psychotic break, arriving back here was like a cursed miracle. She could change the the course of her life. She could change the nature of her relationship with Eteri Georgievna.
"Faster, Polina. You're holding up the line."
The relationship was a barely closed wound that Evgenia was loathe to touch. Part of her wanted to quit skating right now and never speak to her teacher again. How could she repair things while knowing what Eteri Georgievna had done, and what she would do?
"Medvedeva, those jumps are pathetic! Put some effort into it."
The reprimand is sickeningly familiar. Evgenia grits her teeth and pushes off the floor with all the force her broken foot can muster. She's in incredibly good shape. Better than she has been in a long time. Her body can keep up with this training no question, it's just her mind that is rebelling.
Even putting aside what would happen at the Olympics, Eteri Georgievna hurt her terribly. She threw Evgenia to the wolves and branded her a traitor. She trained her in such a way that resulted in permanent damage to her body and spirit. Could she pretend that nothing was wrong?
Time drags as they run, stretch, jump hurdles, jump rope, jump doubles.
On the other hand, this was the woman who made Zhenya. Eteri Georgievna was so integral to her childhood, her achievements, and her identity. She invested so much time and effort into Evgenia as an athlete and a person. This was her coach, her teacher, her mother.
At a minimum, Zhenya wants to avoid the pointless, painful conflict between them. If there was no conflict, interviewers and fans would hopefully stop asking about her every fucking opportunity they got. She can figure out how to navigate this situation later.
"Get your skates on. I want to see you on the ice in ten minutes."
Evgenia laces her skates with a nauseating blend of joy and trepidation. Her broken foot hurts beyond belief but her back pain hasn't properly become chronic yet. It will soon enough, especially if she stays in Russia. To leave or to stay? The decision would change the course of her career. She didn't need the silver as a wake-up call anymore. This was a chance at freedom from expectations, from the bitter endings that plagued every new stage of her life.
Oh fuck, the pandemic.
Oh fuck, the war.
Evgenia puts her head between her knees and breathes. One thing at a time. The Olympics were in three weeks.
She does not know if she could change the fate of the world. But she could change her own.