Chapter Text
Nika walked into the room to find Coach Alexei Urmanov- still dressed in his street clothes and his Kazakhstan team jacket- sitting on his bed.
To say he screamed and almost fell over cartoon-style would've been an understatement. His first thought was, well, at least it isn't Benoit Richaud. Or for that matter, Eteri Tutberidze. Seeing his coach and choreographer right now would probably make him stroke out right then and there. And maybe that would be a good thing. He hadn't seen them since the disastrous free skate he'd rather forget about, and if he never saw them again, it wouldn't be a moment too soon.
“Sorry.” The old man had never looked less sorry in his life. And then a flicker of his usual compassion came into his gunmetal grey eyes. “Are you alright? You fell pretty hard.”
Multiple times, Nika mentally added, giving a humorless laugh. He hadn't realized Urmanov had been watching him. Then again, the entire country- countries- had seen him belly flop during the most important competition of his life, so what was one more person? At least Urmanov wasn't a hater.
“I'm fine.”
“Of course you aren't,” Urmanov sighed, raking a hand through his hair. It was so uncharacteristically messy that it rivalled his protege's own mane, which defied gravity (and combs and flatirons) as much as the rest of him.
“And I need a favor. I'll buy you anything you want to eat. Even alcohol. Just go stay the night with him, please. I'd do it myself, but he will be compelled to behave around me and that's not what I want. He's allowed to be messy and human for one night. All of you are.”
The sheer kindness in Coach Urmanov's voice cancelled out how Nika felt slightly insulted at his earlier insinuation. Like he needed to be bribed to spend time with his best friend on the worst and best night of his life!
He nodded, pulling his white terrycloth bathrobe around him a little tighter. “I won't let him be alone, I promise.”
“Thank you.” Urmanov huffed out a sigh that seemed to come from the very bottoms of his feet. “None of you should be alone tonight, honestly. They left me alone that night too. I know how it feels.”
He was referring of course to his own equally-unexpected Olympic win way back in 1994, before Nika was even born. He never talked about it. Nika suspected it was for reasons both good and bad. Probably more bad than good. He wasn't suicidal or stupid enough to ask.
“I hope Ilia isn't alone.”
The words were out before Nika even realized he'd spoken. He was more surprised at how sincerely he meant them.
Nika had never exchanged more than two words with the American boy, who he personally found a bit of a pompous windbag. Who walked around calling himself a god? And he was more Mikhail's friend than his, anyway. But he wouldn't have wished that kind of once-in-a-century meltdown on anyone, not even a boy who fancied himself the best thing since sliced bread.
Urmanov's expression grew impossibly grimmer. “Then let's hope Roman Skorniakov does something right for once in his life and gives the kid- his kid- all the support he needs.”
He stood, wiping his hands on his lap, eyeing Nika over the wire rims of his old-man glasses. “Listen. You need anything, you both need anything at all, you call me straight away. I don't care how late it is. No one's sleeping, anyway. You got it?”
The intensity in the coach's voice forced Nika to look down at his bedroom slippered feet. “Yes, sir. Is his phone back with him?”
Every federation had their way of getting their athletes into the zone before the biggest competition of the year. Ilia's had clearly failed him by letting him keep it with him. Coach Benoit had taken Nika's phone that very morning but had returned it not five minutes after Nika had stumbled off the ice. Perhaps he meant it as punishment, so Nika could see what everyone on social media was saying about him. Benoit had done way worse things, after all.
Coach Urmanov, protective and paternal to a fault, had confiscated Mikhail's phone from the moment they landed in Milan. It'd resulted in Nika and Luka having to look for him in about seventeen different places whenever it was mealtime.
“Nope. And it's going to stay that way awhile longer.” His voice was as steely as his gaze, brooking no argument. “People are already talking. It's all over the place. Most are happy.” His face darkened with concern and annoyance both.
“But there are already those who're saying it's a fraudulent gold and that he won only because Malinin fell. It isn't, of course, but even if it is, he doesn't need to see that. Don't you dare show him either.”
“I won't!” Nika sputtered, aghast. “He's my best friend!”
“Which is exactly why I need you to go to him now.” Urmanov extended a hand and helped Nika to his feet, but not before giving him a quick hug. “See if you can get him to eat and drink. Yourself too. If you order any food in, charge it to my room. Then you rest. You got that?”
Nika's eyes suddenly welled up with tears. For the nth time, he wished he could accept the offer of moving to Almaty to be taught by his best friend's coach, and it killed him to know he couldn't.
“Yes sir. Thank you.”
The men's dorm in the Olympic village was quieter than he'd expected. It was quiet, period. No one was going in and out of one another's rooms as they normally were, and no music was blaring down the halls. But that kind of made sense in a sick and twisted way, on this night where nothing made sense and everything broke the laws of reality. Everyone was likely licking their wounds in private. The precious few who'd clean skates- minus one Mikhail Shaidorov- were likely out partying with alcohol that could only be procured outside of the village.
Either way, no one stopped Nika as he took the stairs a floor down and wound his way to the other wing of the building. Team Kazakhstan was located on the third floor, and Mikhail's room- a single room because he was the only male figure skater in their delegation- was all the way at the end of the corridor right by the fire exit.
He stopped in front of Mikhail's door and cleared his throat, unsure of why his heart was suddenly hammering so hard. They were best friends who'd shared a room since Mikhail was eleven and he thirteen, for goodness’ sakes.
“Mish? It's me. You there?”
No answer. Nika felt dread begin to pool in his stomach. He didn't think the younger boy would be stupid enough to drown himself in the bathtub or something. He was probably already asleep or something. Nika sure as hell hoped he was, anyway.
Then again.. He hadn't seen much of the younger boy outside of the hug they'd shared right after his win had been announced. But even then, he'd felt the desperation in how his best friend had clung to him. It was as if Nika was a lifeline that prevented him from drowning. He'd known even then that Mikhail needed comfort rather than congratulations. He'd have liked to comfort him more, but duty had called the latter away. He'd been thrust into the spotlight once more, and Nika had caught a brief glimpse of him sitting at some press conference table, Coach Urmanov's hand physically preventing him from getting up and bolting, as he himself had left the arena.
Their eyes had met for a second and Nika thought he looked like a deer in the headlights- or a lamb going to the slaughter. He looked so dazed, so scared, so confused, as if he didn't know how he'd gotten there to begin with. He kept fiddling with the ribbon of the gold medal they'd draped around his neck, acting as if it were a noose strangling what little life remained out of him. It made him shiver, just remembering.
He gave the doorknob an experimental jiggle and was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't locked. Easing the door open, he crept inside.
“Misha?”
The first thing he noticed was that the overhead light was off. The only illumination came from the glow of the table lamp, which lit up the yellow sun and eagle on the light blue Kazakhstan flag above the bed, turning them to gold. A gold that matched the medal now discarded haphazardly in the farthest corner of the room. As if Mikhail had ripped it from his neck and threw it away as far as he possibly could. Nika's stomach turned to ice, and then his gaze swept across the room and he screamed.
“Misha!”
His heart and body moved ahead of his mind. He felt his knees painfully colliding with the floor as he dropped down beside his best friend who was lying on the floor in the middle of the room, curled into a fetal position. He was shaking so hard that Nika caught a fist to the face as he desperately tried to restrain him. There was a sickening crack as his head snapped back against the tiled floor. Nika immediately, instinctively slid a hand under his head before he could slam it again.
“Whoa! Come on! Get it together, you're an Olympic champion now!”
His voice cracked on the words. They tasted funny and foreign, like they hadn't yet become real.
Mikhail's brown eyes were so wide that Nika could see the whites all around. They were wild and wet, and they stared past Nika's left shoulder at something only he could see.
“I don't wanna be one!” He half-gasped, half-wailed out. His fingernails were digging into Nika's arms so hard he was likely leaving marks. “I don't want it, I don't want the medal, we must return it at once-” it ended in a wail that sounded more animal than human. He threw one skinny arm over his eyes, as if unable to bear the light or reality itself any longer. Nika realized that while he had changed out of his free skate costume- he spied a heap of sparkly blue fabric discarded in another corner of the room- his pajama top was only half buttoned as if he'd given up halfway through.
“You can't,” Nika replied helplessly, wanting to scream and cry all at once. Where was an actual adult who could be of use? Where was Urmanov? Where was someone who wasn't stupid, useless, dumpy-looking, soft-headed Nika Egadze?
“I'm sorry, Mish, but you just can't!”
He hated how absolutely stupid it sounded but then again, was Misha even listening?
The younger boy wasn't crying- he was too shocked to cry. His huge brown eyes seemed impossibly larger, shell-shocked and blank and staring, and his breathing was crossing well over into hyperventilating territory. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“For god's sake. Lean on me, damn it.”
With strength he didn't know he possessed, he gave one quick heave and pulled Mikhail onto the narrow bed behind them, grabbing the scratchy standard issue blanket off the mattress and wrapping it around him as tightly as he could.
“Come on, don't you dare die on me here! Just breathe, damn it!”
Mikhail's shivering seemed to get worse rather than better. A soft, strangled cry escaped his colorless lips. Nika knew he needed to get someone, anyone who had more brain cells than he did, but he couldn't make himself leave. Not when Mikhail's fingers were digging into his shoulder, imploring him with his touch and eyes to not leave.
“Not going anywhere. Just breathe with me.” He shucked off his white bathrobe and wrapped it around his best friend. Mikhail's entire body felt like a block of ice. His teeth were chattering so hard it had to hurt, but Nika's heart was already moving ahead of his head. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing or not- or what even was the right thing to do under such circumstances- but he had to try. He pressed his forehead to Mikhail's, grabbing one of Mikhail's thin, trembling hands and placing it against his sternum so he could feel Nika's steady heartbeat. He could see the little boy's pulse beating frantically beneath the translucent skin of his neck, like a sparrow desperately trying to get loose.
“Breathe with me. Breathe for me, ok? In on one, two, three, and out on four, five, six.” It was something Benoit had taught him a few days ago, when he found Nika in the midst of his own panic attack at the breakfast table of all places.
He wasn't sure if Mikhail was actually listening, but he kept counting and huffing breaths anyway, silently scream-praying that whatever deity was listening would help because Nika- stupid, useless Nika- sure couldn't.
It seemed like forever before the little boy's breathing calmed down. Slightly. His glassy eyes focused ever so slowly on Nika's face. Nika imagined he must look terrified, because he sure felt it.
“Nicky?”
His voice was so faint that Nika nearly went to pieces. The last time he'd called him that childhood nickname, they were eleven and thirteen, sitting in their dorm in the Sochi Olympic Reserve School, watching as lightning lit up the courtyard outside. Mikhail had been terrified of storms then. They'd been sitting in this exact position too, Nika's hands on Mikhail's shoulders in a desperate attempt to ground him. Nika wanted more than anything to go back to that night. For just this one night. He wanted to redo, or forget, the last twenty four hours. It was too much. It was all just too much.
But he forced a smile on his face anyway, knowing Mikhail needed comfort way more than he did.
“I'm here.” He caught both his friend's hands in his own and commenced to rubbing them together, hoping to get some warmth back into him. The faintest trace of color had crept back into his gaunt face, and that gave Nika a grim pang of satisfaction. He may not have made the situation any better, but with any luck he'd prevented it from getting any worse. How's that, Luka? He thought. Not that useless after all.
“You rest. I'm going to look after you.”
“Papa sent you here.”
It was a statement, not a question. Mikhail usually addressed his coach by his patronymic the way they all did, but Urmanov always became “Papa" whenever the little boy was unwell or stressed. And God knows he'd some stress to deal with tonight.
“Yes, but I was heading over anyway.” This wasn't a lie. “I didn't feel good about leaving you all alone.”
Nika suddenly picked up the faint scent of alcohol and his heart leapt into his mouth. “Tell me, tell me you haven't been drinking,” he practically begged. Talk about making a problem worse. Luka would be proud, though.
Mikhail shook his head. Whatever terror had seized him had left as quickly as it'd come, leaving him utterly spent. He couldn't even seem to keep his head up anymore- it was lolling about on his shoulders.
“Someone opened a can and gave it to me. Papa took it but I was shaking so hard it spilled on my shirt.”
That was probably the longest sentence he could manage at that point.
Nika's frazzled brain wildly cast around for the next possible topic.
“Did you eat? Anything?”
Mikhail seemed to take a long time- too long a time- to understand Nika's words. Then he gestured weakly in the direction of his table, where a takeout container sat.
“Ivan made me bring this back?” He said it like it was a question. “I don't know what it is.”
“Do you want to eat?”
Mikhail shook his head once more, more violently this time. Chills and a hacking, wet-sounding cough wracked his too-thin frame. Exhaustion had crept into his voice, his wan features.
“It won't stay down.”
Nika knew from experience to always, always, always take a skater at his word when he said he was going to vomit. They'd learned that the hard way when Vladimir Litvintsev, and in later years, Luka Berulava, had showed up hungover for morning ice time.
“Okay. Okay.”
Nika wanted to throw his hands up in despair. Why, oh why, did anyone think it was a good idea to leave any of them alone tonight of all nights? Sure, Urmanov wanted Mikhail to be free of him for a night so he wouldn't feel the need to be on his best apprentice behavior, but that didn't mean he should be left alone either. It was akin to leaving a depressed prisoner alone with a razor blade and turning a blind eye to what inevitably happened next.
“Do you wanna call your mom? You can use my phone.”
Mikhail blinked, swallowing hard.
“I did right after I… I won.” His voice was thick and Nika could hear the desperate longing in it. Of course he wanted his mother! But damn Mikhail for being so noble and self-sacrificing. “Sofia gave me her phone. She cried.. she cried so hard. I can't make her cry again. Besides, it's 7am in Almaty now. She'll be busy with my brothers.”
“Do you hurt anywhere?” That was probably a stupid question. They went splat against the ice on a daily basis. Their knees were uniformly and perpetually purple. The only difference was that this was the one night Mikhail had stayed on his feet till the very end while everyone else went to pieces.
“Yes. No. I don't know.” His whimper was barely coherent or audible now. His eyes were already shut tight.
Nika wasn't even going to touch that. More urgently now, he asked,
“Did you hurt yourself? Are you going to hurt yourself?’
“Too tired.”
Nika refused to consider the implication that he might have actually done it if he had energy enough. He merely nodded, grabbed a fresh bottle of his favorite blue Gatorade off the table, uncapped it and held it to Mikhail's lips.
“At least two sips. I'm not leaving till you do.”
For a moment, it looked like Mikhail might actually argue- he actually turned his head away at first- but he seemed to realize that the sooner he obeyed the sooner he could lie back down. He took the tiniest two sips possible then death-dropped onto the mattress, limbs splayed out like a starfish's. His breathing was still shallow, but he seemed more settled- as settled as he'd likely get tonight. Nika retucked the blankets around him and made sure the windows were shut tight. A light snow was falling outside and while the younger boy had always boasted a superhuman resistance to cold- Almaty winters were more brutal than the mild Sochi snows- Nika couldn't risk him getting sick.
Or sicker than he already was.
“Nicky.”
Nika looked down at his best friend. His face was supposed to be as familiar as his own, but it looked like a stranger's face tonight. It was hollow and broken and wrong in a way that made Nika feel as if his heart had been torn from his chest, still beating. He suddenly remembered a conversation Mikhail- a happy, healthy, laughing Mikhail- had over Skype with his little sister right before they all departed for Milan.
“Don't be silly, I'm not going away forever!” He'd assured the little girl, even as he made faces and blew her kisses to cheer her up. “You'll see me in two weeks, tops.”
What Nika hadn't understood then, but sure did now, was that some part of Mikhail had gone away forever. When he returned, he'd have new responsibilities to juggle, new titles to defend, new mantles to uphold. Where would Nika fit into his new life? Where would the old Misha, his Misha, fit into that new life? Nika didn't know. He wasn't sure if he wanted to find out.
“Yes?”
It came out as broken as Mikhail's own voice.
His best friend gave him a watery smile. “Tell me something about Sochi. A happy memory. Of us. Of you and me and Luka and Vova.”
“Vova”, or even “Volodya” was Vladimir Litvintsev, of course. He'd have incinerated anyone who dared to address him so colloquially but Misha was a persistent vine that had wound his way around their fingers and hearts without even trying. You couldn't resist loving him.
Nika wanted to cry and laugh and scream, all at once. Where should he start? There was a lifetime of memories behind them. Memories of hard times, perhaps, but still infinitely happier and simpler than their current reality.
“Do you remember,” he began slowly, “When we went down to the beach that one time?”
It'd been the week before summer vacation started in earnest. He and Luka had just completed their second year, Vladimir his fifth, and Misha his first. They'd taken a bus to the beach on the other side of town. It was after their final exams so none of the coaches had cared too much as long as they didn't end up on the headlines or in jail.
Mikhail's lips twitched. His cold fingers wrapped around Nika's, and Nika had the sudden urge to grab back and never let go. He didn't understand why. By right, everything should be ok, even good. Winning the Olympic gold was a good thing no matter how you sliced it.
So why did he feel as if something terrible was going to happen?
“When Luka found that dead crab?”
Nika burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. It was the stupidest thing he'd ever seen in his life. And in halting tones that steadily grew stronger and more confident, he walked Mikhail and himself back through that one precious and perfect afternoon.
Luka had thrown the grey-green crustacean at Nika, who'd been lounging on his towel, soaking up some of the sun they rarely saw, shut up as they were in the rink all hours of the day. He'd been laughing so manically he completely missed. The crab had gone right into Vladimir Litvintsev’s face. The latter's fist had gone right into Luka's, and then the older boy had marched right over, picked Luka up with one arm, Nika with the other (what had Nika even done??) and proceeded to dump them both into the sea.
Nika had come up sputtering, spitting out sand and salt, screeching that this was war. Before they knew it, it became a full out water fight. The four of them had laughed and screamed and splashed one another for the better part of the afternoon. Vladimir wore another expression aside from his default smirk. Luka stopped trying to grow up so fast and just enjoyed being with his friends. Nika stopped worrying about his future and just lived in the moment. And Mikhail seemed to act his age for once in his life.
They'd ridden the bus home in sleepy silence (Mikhail actually fell asleep on Nika's shoulder and Vladimir had to carry him all the way back to their dorm), skin already burning from new sunburns, the aftertaste of vanilla soft serves lingering on their tongues, the early evening sun turning their still-dripping hair varying shades of gold.
They were in that precious, too-transient in-between stage between childhood and adolescence. Dangerous conversations about their futures in the sport lay ahead, almost close enough to touch. But for that one afternoon, time had stopped. Time stopped there, for Nika and Luka and Vova and Misha. Time stopped there- in a rainbow of hope and beauty.
Nika's voice cracked as he finished the story all too soon. He savored each word like it was something delicious, because it was. He wished he'd savored those moments before they became memories. He looked down- Mikhail's eyes were shut, his long, still-wet lashes lying close against his gaunt cheeks. When had he gotten so skinny? He looked almost as bad as he had when he first arrived in Sochi all those years ago. His breathing had evened out, and sleep had momentarily washed the lines of pain and fear away. His hand still held Nika's in a vice-like grip, and Nika couldn't bear to pull away.
The bed was a narrow one. All the Olympic ones were. To discourage people getting it on, Luka had concluded that first day. Not that it made a difference, he declared, because people just did it on every other available surface. Nika and Mikhail had stared at him in horror and changed the subject as fast as they could. Still, Nika managed to scooch down enough so that they were lying next to one another. The bed was tucked against the wall, so there was no danger of Mikhail rolling off, not with Nika on his other side. He fumbled in the pocket of his board shorts for his phone, ignoring only about a hundred social media notifications and a hundred more texts from one Luka Berulava.
With one hand, he hurriedly typed a message to Coach Urmanov and forwarded it to Luka as well, just so the latter would know where he was and wouldn't tear his dorm door off the hinges or something.
“He's asleep. I'll stay with him.”
The reply was almost instant. It was as if Urmanov had been staring at his phone the entire time, just waiting for it (willing it too, no doubt) to light up.
“Thank you.”
Then the phone beeped again, and the message was directed at him this time.
“Nika, you need to sleep too.”
Or maybe I need to die, Nika thought. Coach Urmanov's kindness made him feel even worse than Benoit's harshness. It made him feel too exposed. Scraped raw like both sides of his hips after his falls today. He bit his lip so his sobs wouldn't wake a sleeping Mikhail. Pretending they were kids again catching a nap between this competition and that clinic, Nika Egadze dropped his head onto his best friend's shoulder and willed himself into a fitful sleep.
***
The next thing he knew was his back making acquaintance with the floor. A white-hot blast of pain shot through his shoulder blade, waking him faster than the actual screaming did.
“Misha- Mikhail! Stop!”
They'd fallen asleep with the table lamp still on. Mikhail was sitting upright in bed, the blankets a wrinkled mess in his white-knuckled fists. Sweat and tears were running down his face.
And he was screaming.
It took Nika a moment to realize it was Mikhail who was screaming because it sounded for all the world like an animal getting its skin ripped off. Those raw, guttural wails didn't even sound human. He was screaming in his native Kazakh rather than in his usual-halting Russian, but Nika had the sinking feeling he wouldn't have been able to decipher his friend's garbled words even if he'd spoken in their common tongue. The only word he could make out was “Mama”.
“Mish, please, please, PLEASE, you have to calm-”
He grabbed at Mikhail's shoulder, only for the younger boy to dodge (it didn't look deliberate, he didn't seem in control of his body), stare at Nika for one terrible moment, then vomit all over the mattress.
“ARGH GOD DAMNIT-”
The door flew open with such force it hit the opposite wall with a deafening bang. Light suddenly flooded the room, monetarily blinding the two boys huddled on the bed.
And then Coach Urmanov practically teleported over to them, ignoring Nika ignoring the mess, pulling the little boy into his lap and holding him for all he was worth.
“Mikhail! I'm here, I'm here now. Wake up, son, you're okay. Everything's going to be okay.”
The raw terror in Urmanov's voice- something Nika had never heard before and never wanted to hear again- betrayed him before his words did, even as he pressed Mikhail's wet face into his shoulder, rubbing his back and trying desperately to keep him upright.
“No,” that was in Russian now. Mikhail pulled away, and his voice and eyes were suddenly clear. He smiled. A strange, sly smile that was nothing like his usual shy and lopsided one. It was the scariest thing Nika had seen in his entire life.
“No, Papa. Nothing's going to be okay.”
And then his eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out.
***