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Evgenia Medvedeva does not look at Alina when they step off the ice today, and that is okay.
Doesn’t spare a look as Alina passes by in the hallway, the both of them still dressed in their program outfits. Doesn’t even flinch when Alina slows down after their group performance, their hands brushing together accidentally as they pass the boards and make their way backstage.
They lock eyes a grand total of once, and that’s enough—it must be—for Alina to sustain herself for the next few days, even though she craves Evgenia’s attention like a snake seeking the sun. Grass is green, water is wet, Evgenia Medvedeva would rather kick a puppy than spend more than a minute in Alina’s presence.
And that is okay. It must be. Has been. Will be.
Past, present, future.
And as she sits in the empty locker room, having waited for everyone else to vacate before changing, Alina wonders how much the distinction actually matters when the cycle seems to restart no matter how much progress she thinks they’ve made.
They talk. Things look up. Evgenia has second thoughts. Alina is treated to radio silence for another year. It’s like clockwork, or perhaps like that American movie, Groundhog’s Day—stuck in this loop, but she can’t bring herself to figure out how to quit. And just when she’s exhausted, just when she thinks it’s time to give up, Evgenia will do something, anything—a smile, a nod in her direction, a greeting, anything. And then Alina’s right back to the start.
You’re pathetic, the little voice in the back of her head reminds her, helpful as per usual. It sounds eerily like Eteri Tutberidze, which is a hundred times more mortifying. You could’ve picked anyone, and you picked the sole girl who could not hate you more.
“I’m very aware,” Alina mutters under her breath, opting to sit cross-legged on the cold, tiled ground, and in an attempt to block out the noise, unlocks her phone to doomscroll.
She’s greeted by the sight of her own, younger face, beaming on the Olympic podium. Gold around her neck and clad in that stupid, red tutu. Then, a cut to second place, an upbeat song overlaid above an announcer’s echo-y audio, and then—
Immediately, Alina feels sick. She’s scrolling before her brain can catch up to her stomach.
The next video is slightly better—an edit of Anna at Sasha’s wedding. Because even years later, fans still find joy in editing their close friendship. It’s heartwarming and softens something at the sharper edges of Alina’s heart, so she lets it play once before moving on.
And then there’s an American interview playing.
“You’re pretty scrappy,” a blonde woman says.
“I love struggling, actually,” the on-screen Alysa Liu replies, and her eyes seem to sparkle. When she grins, the corners of her lips quirking upwards, catlike and mischievous, Alina spies the glimpse of metal—a piercing through her upper lip.
Abruptly, Alina pauses the video. Catches herself on this foreign skater’s words, snagged on the glint of protruding fangs. Her thumb hovers over Alysa’s bright face—this young woman laughing in the face of this interviewer trying to make something out of nothing.
She drags the scroll bar back a few seconds.
“I love struggling, actually.”
Pause. Rewind.
Just one more time, she tells herself, as if the rings on Alysa's hair could hypnotize her.
Play.
“I love struggling, actually,” Alysa Liu says, like she's just barely holding back a laugh. And English has never been Alina’s favorite subject but something about the way Alysa speaks has her eerily transfixed. “It makes me feel alive.”
It makes me feel alive.
Pause. She’d lied about it being the last. Alina’s always lying to herself these days.
And so she plays the sentence over, just one more time. Out loud, that is. Because then she's churning it through in her head.
Decides to try it out for herself. A test-drive, like she does when buying new cars.
“It makes me feel,” Alina mutters, her tongue curling around the foreign syllables awkwardly, “alive.”
“Do you think she really believes that?”
Immediately Alina startles, a strangled noise escaping as she jolts to attention. Her phone clatters across the floor as she bangs her head against the closest locker, an ugly sound that resounds through the near-empty locker room in its wake, and its only accompaniment being Alina's yelp of shock.
A few paces away, Evgenia Medvedeva winces.
“Ouch.”
Not sorry. Never sorry.
Sucking in a breath, Alina stares at her.
Evgenia stares right back.
“Cat got your tongue, Zagitova?”
“How long have you been here, Medvedeva?” Alina blurts back.
“Long enough to know you've been watching that line on repeat.” Tilting her head, Evgenia almost looks curious. “Are you having a crisis?”
Wonderful.
Alina only sighs, the pit of her stomach hollowing. “When am I not?”
“Hm. How should I know?”
Evgenia kneels to the ground, gingerly picks up the fallen phone. Alina, meanwhile, remains stock still—as if one wrong move could ruin the moment, prick open the strange, strange, bubble they’ve found themselves in. Her gaze follows the older girl silently, watching as a stray strand of hair falls out of place only to get tucked behind an ear a moment later.
It’s terribly unfair, really. How Evgenia still looks gorgeous under the terrible locker room lights—the ones that certainly haven’t been changed in the past decade, casting the entire room in an ugly, yellow light. Yet just like her skating during the glory days, everything about Evgenia looks effortless; her hair, her clothes, her composure; the neutral way her eyes sweep over Alina’s exhausted form sprawled out on the tiled floor.
Something out of a dream. Or maybe Alina’s just sleep-deprived.
Wordlessly, she holds out her hand. Obediently, Evgenia deposits the device into Alina’s grasp, although the twitch of her mouth seems to betray her amusement.
“So?” Evgenia eventually prods.
Alina’s eyes flick to her. “What?”
Evgenia motions to the device, to where Alysa Liu still illuminates the bright screen.
“You think it's possible?”
Alina locks her phone, pockets it. “Of course it is.”
Evgenia raises her brow, surprise flickering in her eyes.
“You didn't take long to answer that at all.”
“I just…” Alina closes her eyes, lets her head loll back to rest against a locker. She's always been horrible at expressing herself—but once upon a time, her emotions had poured out easily around Evgenia. When Evgenia was the one coaxing words from her lips, honey and liquor and Alina had never been drunk before but Evgenia had been her happiness, once, and— “I think I know what she's talking about, is all.”
Evgenia hums. “But weren't you the one with the burnout after your Super Slam? Or were you just not struggling enough?”
Because you weren't there, you arrogant asshole! Alina almost laughs, tears abruptly pricking behind her closed eyes. Because my body couldn't keep up, and you weren't there, and the only time I have ever felt true, unweighted happiness was when I was standing next to you.
“It doesn't have to do with skating,” she says instead. “Not for me, at least. I suppose that's where Alysa Liu and I differ.”
“What?” It's said jokingly, and then Alina is jolting once she hears the rattling of lockers again—the sound of another body joining her on the ground. “Are you telling me that Eteri Tutberidze’s glorious presence wasn't enough?”
And when Alina cracks open her eyes, Evgenia is there. On the locker room floor, her head resting against the metal, a mere arm's length away—if Alina reached out, she could touch her. Brush the bare length of her arm with her fingertips, she could she could she could.
Although if she did, perhaps this Evgenia, too, would disappear like a ghost in the wind. Just as she had after the Pyeongchang Olympics. Just as she does after every single time they step on the ice together.
But for now, Evgenia is here, and Alina forces herself to crack a small smile.
“Eteri Tutberidze is like the sun. She pulls us in and traps us there with her gravity, and you are powerless in her wake.” She sees Evgenia’s teasing, torturous smile falter, just for a moment. “She provides us with her guiding light, but that's just it, right? It is not Eteri Tutberidze who ultimately determines which of us can thrive. That's something we have to derive for ourselves.”
In whatever form it takes.
Sasha and her newfound family. Anna and her own exploration. Yulia and her coaching. Aliona and her child, pair skating. Kamila and her aching crawl back to the spotlight.
Evgenia and the engagement ring on her finger, gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights.
Slowly, Evgenia blinks once, then twice.
“So, what are you struggling with, Zagitova?” Blunt. Because Evgenia can be blunt at best and elusive at worst. “What makes you feel alive?”
And Alina almost responds, almost. Because it's been eight years and while they both have changed in some ways, this has not—Alina, reaching for Evgenia, quietly seeking anything anything anything at all, a lost puppy begging for attention.
When she closes her eyes at night, she sees the outline of Olympic gold, imprinted on the back of her eyelids. Haunting like a phantom. Her greatest achievement, her greatest loss. Because the gold medal could linger—she could lock it away in her bedroom, keep it there forever.
But there had never been an option to keep Evgenia Medvedeva.
Alina doubts she ever had her.
And so she frowns instead. Reels herself in just enough to wonder—
“Where is this coming from?” Alina asks quietly. Why are you even talking to me right now?
And if Evgenia’s put off by the question, she gives nothing away.
“Genuine curiosity,” she says, absently picking at imaginary lint on her sleeve. “I've seen that interview before. And I was also there, in Milan. I watched Alysa skate, I saw the joy on her face. I didn't know it was possible for someone to skate like that—with that kind of freedom.”
“I don't have that kind of freedom on the ice,” Alina says as her hands twist uncomfortably in her lap. “I don't have what you're looking for.”
“Maybe not,” Evgenia replies thoughtfully. “But you're the closest thing I've got.”
Sitting up straight, Alina barks out a sharp laugh. “Of course I am.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. It's just, I have never been your answer—have I, Evgenia?”
Oh.
Oh, that wasn't supposed to come out at all.
Alina clamps her mouth shut in the stunned silence that follows, training her gaze on some off-white tile on the far side of the room.
“Zagitova.” Evgenia narrows her eyes, and not for the first time, Alina feels naked under her scrutiny. “What are you talking about?”
“Why are you here, Evgenia?” Alina interrupts abruptly, curling her shoulder away from the other woman.
“I realized I'd left my phone in my locker.” Evgenia holds up the aforementioned object, clicking the side button once to show—it’s dead.
Dismally, Alina feels the implications sink like a stone in her stomach.
“You didn't drive here yourself, did you?” she says weakly.
“I didn't,” Evgenia affirms, shrugging. “Ildar did.”
Right. Alina closes her eyes, presses two fingers to her temples, then opens them again. Right. The fiancé.
“Wasn’t he just here at the show? Where is he now?”
“Oh, he has places to be.” Humming noncommittally, Evgenia’s eyes seem to gleam. “He left right after my program.”
Right after he watched you parade around in a bridal outfit. Alina bites the inside of her cheek. What the fuck kind of fiancé—
“I would've been doomed,” Evgenia continues, flippant and playful, “but then I saw you here, alone in the locker room.”
And then Evgenia Medvedeva is flashing Alina one of those cheeky smiles she adores manufacturing for the cameras, faux and plastic and brighter than the flash of any paparazzi, all while describing in great detail how she'd found Alina sitting on the ground, staring intently at an interview of Alysa Liu of all people, and how she'd stood there for a moment and watched, letting the clip replay, and replay, listening to Alina murmur to herself, and she knows what she's doing, doesn't she? Alina feels it claw at her neck, wrap around and around and the air is so thick and she can't breathe—
“Evgenia!” Alina finally rasps, the syllables barely scraping up her throat.
Evgenia tips her head, the picture of innocence.
“What?”
Alina’s hands ball into fists at her sides.
“Just what do you want?” she asks desperately.
Agonizingly, Evgenia taps her index finger to her bottom lip, pretending to think.
“Well,” she drawls.
“Zhenya.”
And at the nickname, Zhenya's smile widens.
“My phone is dead. I can't call a ride.”
Feebly, Alina tries another angle. “There might be a charger somewhere here. Or, I could use my—”
“But you want to be my answer, right?” Zhenya interrupts brazenly, and Alina actually flinches. “Then you drive me home.”
“Evgenia.”
“Alina.”
It's a failed attempt at backtracking, at trying to return to some sort of professional distance. Evgenia, Evgenia, Evgenia—but she's always been Zhenya, Zhenya, my Zhenya, the devious little voice in her head reminds her. You foolish, foolish little girl. Even though you never had her. Even though you've belonged to her from the very first day you saw her on the ice.
“That's—” Alina licks her lips, swallows and pointedly looks away. “You're unfair, Evgenia.”
“No,” Zhenya says evenly, and then she's crawling forward, on her hands and knees and Alina is nothing but a cornered animal. “You don't get to do that.”
“Medvedeva.” And now it's Alina's turn to shakily repeat Zhenya's earlier question. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s always interested me,” Zhenya replies, sitting back on her knees and fixing Alina with an unreadable expression. “How you have so many thoughts—I can tell. You're terrible at hiding it, your face gives you away. And yet, whenever it comes down to the wire, you rein it in.”
“Because you never want to listen to me!” Alina bursts out, frustration coursing through her body. “I tried to talk to you! I thought we'd made up, put the past behind us! But every other time, you never—”
“Wrong,” Zhenya shoots back, and she has that look in her eyes again—the one from the Olympics eight years ago. A younger, fiercer Evgenia Medvedeva, who had yet to break under the weight of expectations. “I was uninterested in listening to your platitudes.”
And Alina goes very still.
“Platitudes,” she echoes.
The word sounds ugly coming from Zhenya’s mouth. And it tastes vile on her own tongue but lands somewhere soft. Somewhere tender, and old, an unhealed wound from years ago. And for a moment, all she can do is stare at Zhenya, at the sharp line of her mouth, the terrible certainty in her eyes.
“Is that what you thought they were?” she asks, and hates the thinness of her own voice. “All those times I tried to say something to you—that time we sat down and spoke—that was all you heard?”
“‘We were both young,’ ‘it was complicated,’ ‘I never meant to hurt you.’” Zhenya’s expression does not change. “What else was I supposed to hear?”
“That I was fifteen,” Alina says, and the words come out too small. She hates it. Hates that even now, even after all this time, Evgenia Medvedeva can make her feel like a child caught holding something stolen. “I was fifteen and didn't know anything, Zhenya. Even now, I—I don’t know how to say any of it.”
“Any of what?” Zhenya challenges.
“I—” The words falter on Alina’s tongue.
And then Zhenya’s lunging forward, seizing her by the collar of her cashmere sweater. Pulls Alina in and knocks their foreheads together, inhales the air from Alina’s lungs and leaves her gasping at the sudden proximity.
“Stop hiding, Alina!” Zhenya hisses, seething. “Don’t know how to say what?”
“That I beat you!” Alina chokes out, a tear escaping the corner of her eye. But finally. Finally. “That I wanted to win! That—that I was happy I won. And that I hated how I was happy, and then I hated that you were hurt.”
And it’s so much, too much, that Alina wants to look away. But Zhenya’s hands travel up to her face, cradle her steady, and she’s slipped back upstream eight, nine years, back to when they were okay—to when Zhenya would offer an easy embrace and Alina would melt into her, let the rest of the world fade away. Just like back then, she is powerless under Zhenya’s touch, surrenders herself even to this day.
“Go on,” Zhenya says, quieter now.
Alina swallows.
“I hated how hurting you is the one thing everyone remembers about the best day of my life.” Her bottom lip trembles. And then, softer, “I hated that I could keep the medal but not you.”
And for one, long moment, Zhenya says nothing.
Her thumbs stay pressed to Alina’s cheeks, warm, constant. But her expression has gone strange—blank, almost. Not empty, Alina quietly realizes, but overwhelmed—struck by a blade too sharp, too clean, for her to decide whether it should hurt.
But then Zhenya exhales.
“You think I wanted you to give it back?”
Alina blinks.
“What?”
“The medal.” Zhenya’s voice is low now, scraped down to something bare. Gone is the teasing from earlier, and the anger from a moment ago. “You think that’s what I hated you for?”
Alina’s throat tightens. “Didn’t you?”
Zhenya laughs once, and it is a terrible sound.
“Of course I did,” she says, and Alina flinches before she can stop herself. Zhenya notices—because of course she does. Her fingers flex against Alina’s face. “I hated you. I hated you so much I couldn’t look at you without feeling like I was choking.”
Alina’s eyes burn.
“I know.”
You hugged me on the podium but things were never the same.
“No,” Zhenya says. “You don’t.”
She leans in—not closer, exactly, because there is no closer left to go. Just enough that Alina feels the words before she can comprehend them.
“I hated you because you were the only person in that entire arena who understood what it cost me.”
Zhenya’s face twists. It is a brief thing—gone almost as quickly as it appears. But Alina catches it. The flash of her eyes, wet and furious. The old grief, not diminished by time, but disciplined into something quieter.
“I didn’t want the medal from you,” Zhenya whispers, her thumb running over smooth skin. “I just wanted you to stop looking at me like you’d killed me yourself.”
Alina’s breath catches.
“Zhenya—”
“I know. I know, Alina.”
Shit.
“I didn’t—” Alina sobs, shaking her head but Zhenya won’t let go. “I didn’t know how else to—”
“I know,” Zhenya repeats, and there is no cruelty in it. She pushes the tears away from Alina's face. “That was the problem.”
“And so…” Alina stifles the shake of her shoulders, because she already looks pathetic enough. “When you left—When you left for Canada—”
“I really did need to get away from Eteri Georgievna.” Zhenya laughs quietly, offering one shoulder in a shrug. “But a part of me was running from you, too. I needed space.”
“From me,” Alina concludes miserably.
Zhenya’s thumb stills against her cheek.
“From everything.”
“That is not a real answer,” Alina mutters.
A strange smile crosses Zhenya’s face, fragile and humorless.
“Maybe not,” she admits. “But it was the only one I had back then.”
Alina tries to pull back again. Zhenya does not let her.
“I was so angry,” she continues, and the words come slowly now, like she has to choose each one from between her teeth. “At Eteri. At the judges. At myself. At every single person who looked at me like I’d died standing upright on that Olympic ice.” Her mouth contorts into a frown. “But none of them sat in front of me on the bus ride back to the village, looking at me like they were sorry for putting on the show of their life.”
Alina’s resulting laugh breaks on a sob.
“So you really hated me.”
“Yes, but also no.” Zhenya sighs, the puff of air against Alina’s lips something like a concession. “I think I hated you because it was easier than missing you.”
Alina’s breath leaves her.
“Do not look at me like that,” Zhenya whispers.
“Like what?”
“Like I have said something kind.”
“Have you?”
Zhenya laughs once, small and bitter. “I don’t know. Maybe. I was never very good at being kind to you, after all.”
That’s not true, though, the little voice in Alina’s head protests. Because it was Zhenya who had first extended her hand to Alina—friendly, warm Zhenya, who had seen a quiet, reserved Alina at practice in Sambo-70 and pulled her to the middle of the ice, bright-eyed and eager to show off a new part of her program.
Alina had been a goner from the very beginning.
“And now?” she whispers.
The corner of Zhenya’s mouth quirks up, muted in amusement, and all at once, Alina is very aware of the cold metal of the other woman’s engagement ring, pressed against her cheek.
“Now,” Zhenya says, “I am getting married.”
The statement alone should make Zhenya let go.
It does not.
Alina leans into the prolonged touch, greedily drinking in the awful tenderness in Zhenya’s hands. Something inside of her folds.
Finally, she pulls away, surprise flickering in Zhenya’s eyes as Alina leans back against a locker door, offering the other woman a weary smile in exhaustion.
“You asked me how I knew what it felt like—how struggling makes me feel alive.”
“I did.”
“I'm not your fiancé,” Alina says softly. “But I am yours. And unfortunately for me, I just don't know how to quit.” Aggrieved, she runs a hand through her short hair, nails scratching at her scalp as she admits her biggest sin. “Because it’s a struggle every day—every single day. And it is embarrassing, and incredibly inconvenient. But it's also the only thing that makes me feel alive.”
Zhenya stares at her. “Alina.”
Alina shakes her head.
“Please don’t look at me with pity.”
“Nice try. Look again.”
And it takes a moment of steeling her nerves, preparing for whatever unknown variable she didn't take into account, but then Alina is lifting her head and gasping at what she finds—
Zhenya's eyes, dark and dilated, like a caged animal. Still on her hands and knees, mouth set in a straight line, staring at Alina cornered against the lockers like a lost lamb.
“Why do you look like that?” Zhenya murmurs, almost like she's talking to herself. “Like you didn't put yourself in this exact position?”
Alina inhales shakily.
“Zhenya?”
Zhenya's tone sharpens. “Use your words, Alina.”
“Why did you really come back to the locker room?”
“For my phone,” Zhenya repeats. But then she's cocking her head, humming that siren song again. “That I may have deliberately left behind.”
Alina gasps at the sheer statement, and Zhenya closes in on her before she can even register its meaning.
“You think you are the only one who struggled?” Zhenya demands, deceptively strong arms trapping her against the locker door.
Alina’s fingers curl against cold metal behind her.
“Zhenya—”
“You think I did not notice you? All these years?” Her voice lowers, almost incredulous. “You think I did not know exactly where you were in every room?”
Dizzyingly, Alina suddenly finds it hard to breathe.
“You’re engaged,” she says weakly. “You’re getting married.”
“I am,” Zhenya says. A cruel, but honest answer. But then—“And still, when you brushed your hand against mine today, I thought I was losing my mind.”
Alina’s eyes widen. “You… noticed that?”
“Of course I did.” Zhenya barks out a laugh, carding a hand through her own short hair. “My legs and spine might not be what they used to be, but my hands are still perfectly functional.”
Lips parting, Alina shakes her head in disbelief. “That's… that's not possible. Why—” Why wouldn't you say anything?
And as if she can hear the rest of the unfinished question, Zhenya sighs again. It's a heavier sound, a release of something older and hidden.
“Well, what was I supposed to do, Alina?” Zhenya asks quietly, blinking twice like she also cannot believe she's admitting any of this aloud. “Half a decade of convincing myself I was well-adjusted, all for it to come crumbling down the second you texted me ‘Are you awake?’ last year. And then we met, and we talked, and you still looked at me like I set all the stars in the sky… And all I could think about was how it’s been so long but I still didn't know how to do this. I hated you, and then suddenly I didn't, and now I don't know how to want you a normal amount.”
“That's—” Alina swallows, breathes. “Really unhealthy of you.”
Zhenya laughs dryly. “You're telling me. But neither of us were exactly raised to want things gently.”
And it’s genuinely sad how correct she is—how they’ve both been trained to take, and take, and take. The next spin, the next jump, a trophy, a medal. An entire goddamn Super Slam. It had left them both woefully unprepared for the future, when their legs would falter and they'd lose their jumps, and the competitions would vanish out of reach. Such is figure skating and the Eteri Expiration Date, all that build-up without the payoff; the end of a disappointing movie.
(Alina had stared at the TV this year and saw them—Alysa Liu, Kaori Sakamoto, Amber Glenn, all twenty or older. Had thought about herself and Zhenya and wondered what if, what if, what if.)
But it is too late for such things now and there is no changing the past.
Alina has remained greedy. And Zhenya is right here.
In a daze, her eyes drift down to Zhenya's lips.
Watches in real time as they curve upwards into a smirk.
“You’re not very subtle, are you, Zagitova?”
Heat curls low in Alina’s stomach, sharp and humiliating. By all accounts, this is where she should look away and probably say something clever. There are a million different things she should do other than sit here and stare at Evgenia Medvedeva’s mouth like it contains every answer she has ever failed to find.
Unfortunately, Alina has always struggled with social cues, and the woman caging her in knows this intimately.
“No,” Alina says, though it comes out weak enough to be embarrassing. “I’m being very normal.”
Zhenya’s smirk widens.
“Sure,” she agrees easily. “Perfectly normal. That’s why you look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.”
“Mm. Tragic.” Zhenya’s gaze dips to Alina’s mouth, quick and devastating. “Should I check?”
And in that moment, Alina forgets every language she has ever learned.
It must show on her face, because Zhenya laughs under her breath—something warmer, almost fond. Because in the end, this is Zhenya, too. Warm, a kinder sun, the easiest person to love in the entire world. Her hand drifts from Alina’s cheek to the length of her neck, thumb stroking just below her jawline, and Alina feels the effect of her touch everywhere.
“Alina,” Zhenya murmurs.
Her name sounds different like this. Not sharp, nor accusatory. Not a command barked across ice or a polite acknowledgement offered for the cameras. Just her name, softened by want.
And that is the problem, isn’t it?
Because Alina wants. God, she wants. Wants with every ruined, starving part of herself. Wants to close the distance, wants to find out if Zhenya tastes the same as she remembers imagining, wants to be selfish for once without immediately dressing it up as guilt.
But there’s still one, wriggling thought in Alina’s mind—
“Ildar?”
“His favorite color is lavender, Alina,” Zhenya says wryly, toying with a strand of Alina’s short, dark hair. “You could say it's the entire theme of our wedding.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Where did he go tonight, Zhenya?” Alina breathes.
And then that mischievous grin is back, Zhenya nudging their noses together. “Kiss me now, and maybe you’ll find out later.”
“Zhenya.”
“Later,” Zhenya hushes, dipping her head to mouth at the underside of Alina’s jaw. “I’m feeling strangely romantic tonight, Alina—and the details of my wedding are, frankly, not very romantic at all.”
And for a second, Alina can only stare.
Then she understands. Or thinks she does—enough of it, anyway.
The laugh that slips out of her is small, stunned, half-broken. Zhenya’s mouth softens at the sound, and that is somehow worse than the smirk. Because Alina has spent years surviving on tension and distance and implication. How is she supposed to react now, with the sort of dreamlike tenderness right here, unbearable, brushing heat against the line of her jaw?
“You’re impossible,” Alina whispers.
“So I’ve been told.”
“By him?”
“By many people.” Zhenya’s lips graze the corner of her mouth. Barely there. Wholly infuriating and completely Zhenya. “But yes, also by him.”
Alina really should ask another question. Probably should demand clarity, make Zhenya explain every practical, unromantic detail before they do something stupid and irreversible on this locker room floor.
Instead, she turns her head.
The first kiss is almost nothing.
A brush of parted lips, gone so quickly Alina might have imagined it if Zhenya did not go perfectly still above her. If her hand did not tighten in Alina’s hair. If the very air between them did not shake.
And then it is not nothing at all.
Zhenya kisses her again—properly this time, hungry and careful all at once, like she has no idea which to trust. Alina makes a quiet, mortifying sound into her mouth and feels Zhenya smile against it, feels the awful, wonderful curve of her amusement.
“Zhenya,” Alina murmurs, hands finding Zhenya’s hips. “Zhenya—”
“Hm?”
“I am not fragile either.”
“Ah, you’re right. My mistake.”
Zhenya’s hand slips from Alina’s hair to the side of her throat, thumb settling just beneath her jaw, and she is there, warm and certain, as if to feel the frantic flutter of Alina’s pulse for herself.
“Not fragile,” Zhenya mutters, and kisses her again. “Fine.”
This time, she does not treat Alina like glass.
Alina gasps into it, fingers tightening at Zhenya’s hips as the older girl pushes her more firmly against the locker door. The metal rattles behind her, loud enough that Alina almost laughs, except Zhenya catches the sound in her mouth and turns it into something breathless instead.
Messy, unpracticed. Ridiculous, definitely, because Alina has imagined this a thousand different ways and none of those fantasies accounted for the cold tile digging into her ankle, or the ache in her knees, or the faint taste of lipstick and adrenaline—and definitely not the way Zhenya keeps smiling like she’s pleased with herself every time Alina forgets to breathe.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Alina accuses, though it comes out ruined.
“I waited years, just like you,” Zhenya says, nipping the words against the corner of her mouth. “Let me be insufferable.”
“You are always insufferable.”
“And yet.”
And then Zhenya kisses her again, and Alina has no clever answer. No dignity either. She loses both somewhere between Zhenya’s mouth and the hand sliding under her sweater just enough to press warm against the small of her back. It is utterly humiliating, how easily she arches into it.
Zhenya stills.
“Alina,” Zhenya whispers, her breath wisping over parted lips. “Alina, we—”
Whining, Alina presses their noses together again, chasing the high of another kiss as a quiet laugh bubbles from Zhenya’s chest. And it’s sheer serendipity in its purest form—it must be—as the older girl leans in, complying with a satisfied hum.
“Zhenya—” It's the only word in Alina's vocabulary, sweet tasting against her tongue, and this. This is a thousandfold better than any sort of high. “Zhenya, Zhenya—”
“Don't wear it out,” Zhenya jokes, pressing one final, chaste kiss to Alina’s lips, and all the stars are in her eyes. “Greedy girl. You're starving.”
Flushing, Alina nods, not even protesting. She's gone, so far gone.
Zhenya’s expression shifts at that—softens around the edges in a way Alina has no defense for. Her thumb brushes over Alina’s swollen lower lip, once, twice. Memorizes the shape of just what she’s done.
“I mean it,” she says, quieter now. “No more starving.”
Alina’s throat works uselessly.
“Is that a promise?”
Zhenya’s eyes flicker, but she does not look away.
“It’s an intention,” she says. Then, because she is Zhenya and apparently allergic to letting sincerity sit unmolested for longer than three seconds, her mouth curves. “A very strong one.”
Alina lets out a laugh, small and helpless, and it feels like something shaking loose in her chest. Maybe that’s all they can offer each other for now. But then again, neither of them have ever been good at guaranteeing certainties, nor absolutions. The dream of a clean, pretty future tied with ribbon and presented for everyone’s approval died the day they each chose figure skating over every other possible avenue.
Intention is enough.
This is enough: Zhenya’s hand warm at her back, Alina’s fingers curled in the fabric of her shirt. Both of them still breathing a little too hard on the locker room floor.
“Okay,” Alina whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Mmhm.”
Zhenya grins, satisfied, then leans in to press one last kiss to the corner of Alina’s mouth—gentle enough to ache.
“Good,” she murmurs, smile widening. “Then here’s what’s going to happen.”
Opting to remain quiet, Alina raises an incredulous eyebrow.
“You are going to take me back to your ridiculously expensive car,” Zhenya says, nosing at the shell of Alina’s ear. “You are going to drive the both of us back to your place—slowly.”
Alina rolls her eyes. “Then we'll never get back.”
“At a normal, legal speed limit,” Zhenya amends, earning a quiet giggle, and when she continues, Alina can hear the smile in her words. “Hey, I mean it. There's at least one person in all of Russia who cares about you being safe behind the wheel. No more being careless.”
Alina sighs, burying her face in the crook of Zhenya's neck.
“Alright.” It comes out muffled.
“What was that?”
“I'll be careful!”
“Yes, you will be. Now, where was I? Ah, right—” Nimble fingers slip under her sweater again and dance down the line of her spine, and Alina shivers. A small noise slips from her lips, face heating up as Zhenya laughs, pleased. “You will let me into your house, and I will drag you down the hallway like I've been there before.”
“Always so presumptuous,” Alina mumbles, but she's pressing a smile against Zhenya's skin. “You are lucky my bedroom isn't hard to find.”
“Your bedroom?” Zhenya gasps theatrically. “Now who's the presumptuous one?”
“You're the one giving me the play-by-play!”
Giggles burst from Alina, and she feels like she's fifteen again. Young and starry-eyed, in love with an older, beautiful girl with beautiful edges on the ice. Pressing a kiss to the side of Evgenia Medvedeva’s head next to the Olympic rink, when it was the two of them at the top of the world. Giddy with the joy of a gold medal, except this is some greater happiness because a gold medal cannot choose who places it around their neck.
Evgenia Medvedeva can choose. Has chosen. Is choosing. Past, present, future—it no longer matters, she's in Alina Zagitova’s arms right now.
The world could collapse tomorrow. Or perhaps something more mundane than that. Maybe Zhenya will wake up and decide it’s all been a mistake.
Who cares? The little voice in her head says. Either you get Zhenya, or you return to your struggle. You are alive either way, Alina Zagitova.
“You’re in your head again.” Zhenya's observation cuts through Alina’s sudden train of thoughts, curious with muted worry. “Where did you go?”
Alina blinks, chews on her lip. Deciding not to lie, she slumps further into Zhenya's embrace and closes her eyes.
“Contingency plans,” she mutters, and she knows Zhenya hears the unspoken undercurrent because the older girl immediately sighs, reaches up and runs a hand through Alina's hair. “Sorry. I ruined it. I shouldn't be—”
“I'm not running anymore, Alina,” Zhenya tells her, quiet but honest. “Neither of us needs to have all the answers right now. We’ll figure it out, okay?” Peppering closed-mouth kisses to the side of Alina’s head, the corner of Zhenya's mouth twitches into a small smile. “We can struggle together again. Like we used to. But better, because we are just a bit better now.”
“Just a bit.” A soft laugh spills from Alina’s lips. “You realize we'll actually have to talk then, right? We can't take out our frustrations on the ice anymore, our legs are all fucked up.”
That, and I don't think I can handle another five years of stilted silences.
Zhenya merely hums.
“We'll figure it out,” she repeats. “This conversation wasn't so bad, right?”
“Before or after you nearly choked me?” Alina asks dryly.
Zhenya clicks her tongue once. “Hey. Don't pretend you didn't like it.”
“What?” Alina sputters. Then, aghast—“Zhenya!”
And with a bright laugh, Zhenya pushes herself up from the locker room floor, disentangling their limbs with mischief in her eyes. Brushing herself off, she extends one hand to Alina, who continues to stare up at her, transfixed.
“Tell me what you really think, Alina,” she says, smirking. Even under the bright fluorescent lights, Evgenia Medvedeva is as beautiful as the first day Alina saw her on the ice at Sambo-70.
And so it takes no further consideration at all—she takes Zhenya’s hand and allows herself to get pulled to her feet.
“I think,” Alina says musingly, swaying from foot to foot, “we should send Alysa Liu a gift basket.”
And Zhenya tips her head back, laughs and laughs and laughs.
Fin.