Chapter Text
Ilia almost deletes them. He’s sitting on the floor of his apartment, phone buzzing relentlessly in his hand. Practice starts in forty minutes, he doesn’t have time for spam calls. But the notification isn’t a call.
Voicemail (47)
He frowns. Forty-seven? He taps it, most of them are old. Two years old. The dates stack downward like a timeline he somehow missed. And every single one is from the same contact. You. For a second he just stares. His chest tightens with something sharp and ugly.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters.
Two years ago you moved away. Two years ago you stopped answering texts. Two years ago you disappeared from competitions, from skating, from everything. Two years of silence. And now suddenly there are voicemails. He presses the first one without thinking.
Voicemail — March 18
“Hey, idiot.”
Your voice fills the room like someone opening a window. Ilia freezes.
“I forgot the time difference again,” you laugh softly. “You’re probably asleep. Or training. Or doing something ridiculous like trying to land six quads before breakfast.”
He doesn’t breathe. “I just wanted to tell you I landed the triple loop again today. The rink here is smaller than ours but it’s nice. Not the same without you though.” A pause. “Call me back, okay?”
The message ends. The silence afterwards feels wrong. Ilia stares at the phone.
“She… called?” His voice sounds hoarse even to himself. He scrolls down and presses the next one.
Voicemail — April 2
“Okay, rude. You didn’t call me back.” You sound amused, not upset. “I know you’re busy but come on, Malinin. Two minutes?”
There’s the faint echo of a rink behind you. The scrape of blades. “I tried the quad sal today just to see if I could scare my coach.” A laugh. “Didn’t land it. Obviously. I’m not you.” Another pause. “Still… I wish you were here. You would’ve told me to stop hesitating. Anyway, call me back when you get this."
Ilia’s grip on the phone tightens. “I didn’t-”
He never got these. He would have called. Of course he would have called. He presses another.
Voicemail — June 11
“Hey.” Your voice is quieter this time. “I saw your competition. The one in Japan.” A small breath. “You were amazing.” The words are soft, proud. “You always were.” A longer pause now. “I tried to text you after but… I guess you’re busy.”
The rink noise is gone. You sound like you’re outside. “I’m thinking about quitting competitions. Just… for a while.” Another breath. “Don’t freak out when you hear that. It’s not forever.” You force a laugh. “Okay, maybe a little freak out.”
Ilia scrubs a hand over his face. “What?”
His heart is beating faster now. You quitting competitions makes no sense, skating was your whole life. You trained together since you were kids. Every morning before school, every late night session, every stupid dare.
Voicemail — December 2
There’s a small rustling sound before your voice starts, like you’re adjusting the phone. “Hey, birthday boy.” You sound bright, too bright, like you practiced the tone first. “Happy birthday, Ilia.” A soft laugh escapes you. “I was gonna sing, but you know how that went the last time I tried. Your mom literally told me to stop.”
A pause. “I hope training went well today. Or… that you at least took the day off. Which you probably didn’t because you’re insane.” The smile in your voice fades just a little. “I was thinking about that one birthday you had at the rink? When we tried to do that stupid synchronized jump thing and both wiped out.” Another quiet laugh. “You blamed the ice. I blamed you.”
The silence stretches longer this time. “I miss skating with you.” A breath. “But you’re probably busy. Competitions and stuff.” Your voice softens. “Anyway… I just wanted to say happy birthday.” Another pause, hesitant now. "Call me when you can, okay?” You wait a second like you’re expecting the call to connect.
Then quietly, “Bye, Ilia.”
He scrolls further. More messages. Dozens of them. He presses one from the next year.
Voicemail — February 9
“Hi.” Your voice is tired. “I know you’re not answering, but I guess I’m used to talking to you anyway.” There’s a small huff of breath that might be a laugh. “I stopped competing officially last month.”
Ilia’s chest feels like something is squeezing it.
“I still skate sometimes. Early mornings when the rink is empty.” The quiet stretches. “I landed the triple loop again today.” A pause. “You would’ve liked it.”
His throat tightens. You kept talking to him. For two years. Thinking he was ignoring you. He scrolls again, hands shaking now. The dates get closer, the messages shorter.
Voicemail — October 3
“Hey, Ilia.” Your voice sounds fragile. “I watched your new program.” A faint smile in your tone. “You look happy.” The pause stretches long enough that he thinks the message ended. Then quietly, “I’m glad.”
Ilia presses the most recent one. It’s only three months old. His heart pounds as it starts.
Voicemail — December 21
There’s no background noise, just you breathing softly. “Hi.” Your voice sounds careful, like you practiced what you were going to say. “I know you probably changed numbers or something.” A small, sad laugh. “But I kept leaving messages anyway.” Another pause. “I guess I just… didn’t want to stop talking to you.”
Ilia’s eyes burn. “I miss you.” The words are barely above a whisper. “You were my best friend, you know?” A breath that shakes. “I hope you’re okay.”
The message ends there. Ilia doesn’t realise he’s crying until a drop hits the phone screen. Forty-seven voicemails. Two years of you talking to him thinking he didn’t care enough to answer.
“God,” he whispers. “I didn’t get them,” Ilia says, voice shaking.
His hands move before his brain catches up. He taps your contact. Calls. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Every second stretches unbearably long.