Archive of Our Own

Deniss had fucked up.
 
Majorly, at that.
 
It wasn’t necessarily any new information, because sometimes he suspected he’d fucked up years before.
 
Then again, when your idol and inspiration (and nothing else of relevant meaning) asked you (though it had never been you, specifically) to become his student, what would you have said? No? Out of the question.
 
And he was happy. Of course he was, because he’d been one fall away from having to retire his career at the ripe age of sixteen and now, he’d been to the Olympics. It was no small feat, especially for a boy from a federation that was worth next to nothing, compared to the titans of the sport, always chewing and spitting out the rest.
 
He loved figure skating; he loved changing it, himself, the way he breathed and left his heart on the ice every single time.
 
He loved that small village in the Alps that was so quaint and so far from everything it didn’t even have a fucking pharmacy.
 
He loved how it gave him the freedom to escape from everything that had made him feel inadequate or small, back home.
 
But he had, inadvertently (very much knowingly) thrown himself into the lion’s mouth (and no, the irony of that metaphor was not lost on him). Because he had given himself freedom, but had given his feelings the same thing. A bad, very bad thing.
 
It was fine, to have a crush, when it was merely on a man he’d obsessed over on TV. It was less fine, when he was living in said man’s house and when they spent all of their time in each other’s pockets.
 
He’d tried not to overthink it, had grabbed the chance he’d been waiting for the moment it’d been offered to him, because, after all, he knew the admiration for his art, the yearning for the ice, had come first, before the crush.
 
The rest had been a byproduct, a byproduct that had sent him tumbling towards years of confusion and guilt and self-loathing. They might have been dissipating, albeit slowly, like a healing bruise, but there’d always be a scar, intangible, in a place he could not see.
 
Everything would have been great. Had he not been a fucking idiot.
        
He didn’t even know what excuse he could find. There was none which would have been enough, after all.
 
What he’d done was not only reprehensible, but also kind of douchey. And that was possibly the last word he would have ever used to describe himself. Yet, what else could have described what he’d done? Other than idiotic, childish, life-altering in the worst possible way?
 
He’d been good at hiding. Very damn good. At least, he thought so. Maybe his crush had simply never been acknowledged, because it didn’t need to be. It was anticipated, like the rain falling, like the sun dipping beneath the horizon every evening; it’d been probably cute, until then.
 
No matter how much he despised thinking of himself that way, knowing that was the way he was seen. He didn’t want to be cute; he wanted to be—beautiful. Worth looking at. But, of course, he’d never been. He’d never believed such a naïve thing.
 
It was just a crush; one of those classic, tragic teenage crushes on someone older (a student in the higher grades, your best friend’s sibling, a teacher, a coach), which would obviously never be requited. He knew it. Of course, he knew it. He was young, but he wasn’t a complete moron. Or, he wouldn’t have been, had he not lost his mind, that night.
 
There were no excuses; none. He could have blamed it on the post-show euphoria; but that was hardly the first he’d ever been in.
 
He could have blamed it on the lights, on the way they’d given Stéphane such alluring, annihilating angles; but that was hardly the first time he’d seen him painted in such way.
 
He could have blamed it on the program they’d skated together, the way their souls touched more than their bodies did; but it was hardly the first time they performed it.
 
He could have blamed it on an awful many things, but the truth was that there was no one to blame but himself. He didn’t know why he’d done it (well, no, he was painfully aware of the why; he didn’t know how he’d let it happen), but it didn’t matter.
 
He had. And that was enough to know he’d fucked up. Now, his secret was out (and so was he). But, considering it’d probably never been a secret, it was better to say that he’d made something that should have remained his, everyone else’s problem. Stéphane’s problem. Which also could have been an accurate way to describe himself.
 
Even thinking about it made him cringe, internally. Not externally, because he was standing in the middle of an hotel’s hallway, and it would have made it awkward as well. More so than it already was, anyway.
 
It shouldn’t have been that difficult, to knock on a mere door; but it was so much more, right then. It was a wall he’d built between them, from something that had never been tangible when left unsaid, miniscule, forbidden. Right then, it seemed greater than the ocean.
 
He needed to say something, but he doubted he could ever find the words. He could have never lied, because he’d had enough of seeing his emotions as something wrong, something to be ashamed of. He couldn’t—he couldn’t be. They weren’t wrong. Acting upon them had been. He could certainly apologise, but he imagined it wouldn’t change the awkwardness, the carefulness.
 
And he didn’t want to feel like something fragile, something that could break. Though he had felt that way, in that nearly shattering moment when he’d tasted his lips, felt them warm and soft and real.
 
Until he’d realised that they’d felt too real.
 
Until he’d realised that he hadn’t fallen into one of his nearly feverish, shameful dreams.
 
Until he’d realised that, in the dark, he’d forgotten himself.
 
Until he’d realised that it was Stéphane he was kissing.
 
Until his coach had grabbed his shoulders, held him back. There had been no anger, no disgust, no fear in his touch; even then, his hands had been tender, kind, worried, as he pushed him away.
 
He’d kissed him without his consent and he’d had the audacity to look worried for him, eyes flooded with a thousand different words he could have said, but didn’t. In the end, he didn’t say a thing. He hadn’t needed him to. He hadn’t waited for him to.
 
He’d choked back a gasp (like he were the shocked one), rushed to the changing room, haphazardly thrown his clothes on and had argued with Chris in the parking lot for a good two minutes until the older man had let him return to the hotel by foot.
 
He’d needed time alone, time away. Time to understand how to fix his mess. But there wasn’t a way, was there? What was done was done; nothing he could have done could have ever taken it back.
 
And he wished he’d understood anything, gotten to any conclusion, but in reality, he’d spent the whole walk back miserable and sorry for himself. The only coherent word in his mind had been a string of fuck, over and over again. Because he’d immediately known how much of a mess he’d made, and it’d drowned him. It still did. No matter how much he searched, how much he strained, he could not find the shore, could not breathe.
 
He hadn’t wanted to cry, and he’d barely realised tears were pushing at the back of his eyes, until they’d stung his cheeks, in the coldness of the night. Still, he hadn’t allowed any sound to escape his lips, because he hadn’t wanted to find himself in the middle of a dark sidewalk, sobs racking his body. He’d merely let the tears fall, pretended they weren’t there. As if it’d make any difference, to ignore the gravity of what he’d done.
 
When he’d finally reached the hotel, he’d flung himself into his room, not wanting to cross paths with any other skater, because something told him they would have known, would have looked at him with pity, and that was the last thing he’d needed.
 
Then, after closing the door behind him, he’d slid to the floor, his head on his knees, waiting for his breathing to even out, listening to the few sounds of the outside world.
 
He wasn’t sure how long it’d been but, after a while, he’d understood that he couldn’t hide forever. It was both impractical and immature.
 
He had to face the consequences of his own actions. How could he have any hope of being seen as anything different than a child if he didn’t (although he knew he never would; and he knew he shouldn’t wish for it, either)?
 
Pushing himself back up on legs that were more unsteady than he was willing to admit, he’d made his way there, where he still was, tangled into so many words he couldn’t say and so many feelings he could not even begin to distinguish them, pull them away, pick them apart.
 
And he would have probably remained there for the rest of the night, the rest of time, had the door not swung open, revealing a quite dishevelled Stéphane. His hair looked such a mess there was no doubt he’d spent countless minutes running his fingers through them with worry. Yet another thing he had caused.
 
His heart began hammering so fast against his ribs you’d think it was trying to escape and Deniss nearly leaped back. But the look in his coach’s eyes (harsh, tense, unreadable) told him that this was the moment he’d dreaded and couldn’t avoid anymore.
 
“It’s two in the morning,” Stéphane offered, graciously, without immediately pointing at the elephant in the room and demanding an explanation.
 
Deniss wished he could have said something clever, but he merely stood there, not unlike a deer caught in the headlights, he imagined. All those words he wished he could have said had escaped him and there was nothing left but a consuming panic.
 
He wondered how long his coach had known he was there. He wondered if he would have eventually gone searching for him, had he not found him first. And he would have wondered whether thoughts of what had happened had kept him awake, had the answer not been rather obvious. He had not realised how late in the night it’d gotten.
 
Well, he should have been glad. He hadn’t found the strength to knock on the door, but the door had opened without him even needing to ask. Perhaps, there was hope that wall could be shattered, everything forgotten; that his mistake could be erased and life return to how it’d always been.
 
But, still, he’d gone there to apologise, at the very least. It shouldn’t have been difficult. Yet, he didn’t know where to begin, how not to feel so suffocated by the beating of his own heart.
 
By everything he had, everything he could have lost. By everything he wanted, everything he could have never had. By everything he perhaps didn’t even truly want, and had longed for merely because he’d twisted it into something sacred; a forbidden fruit he yearned for a taste of.
 
Stéphane frowned, when it became clear he was never going to say anything and went to grab his arm, ever so gently, before realising that he couldn’t, because he was afraid to touch him, now, afraid to know how he’d react. Afraid he’d stumble once more.
 
He let his hand fall beside him once more, curling it into a fist. Sighing, Stéphane stepped away from the door, wordlessly inviting him in. It would have not been inconspicuous to cause a ruckus in the hallway.
 
And while everything told him he should have kept his distance and this was a horrible idea, he walked past him, further into the room. Everything was less neat than usual, he noticed. The sheets were rumpled, but that was certainly the less peculiar thing about the state of the room, as Stéphane had likely used his bed, though he had been unable to sleep (there was no bleariness to his eyes).
 
But his suitcase was overturned, clothes spilling out and sprawled on the floor. The small vase filled with fake flowers had fallen to the side. He didn’t comment on it, much like his coach didn’t comment on the fact that he was still wearing his shoes and still hadn’t changed. Stéphane had, and he refused to acknowledge how soft and warm he looked in his loose pants and loose shirt.
 
When the door closed behind him, he winced. He supposed the wall had also been there to protect him from the consequences of his actions; but he was on the other side, now.
 
He squeezed his eyes shut, for a second, breathing deeply. A second before the older man’s voice collided with him once again.
 
“We need to talk,” he said, and he knew he was right; he’d been meaning to. Reason why he rather surprised himself when the words that left his lips were merely:
 
“There’s nothing to talk about,” that was entirely not true and there were so many evidences of it he would have lost his mind had he tried to count them all.
 
First of all, he’d placed their relationship in jeopardy, and that was something he needed to mend. Second, he’d made a mess of Stéphane, and didn’t even dare think about what must have been running through his mind right then; that was not something he could ignore either. And yet, the first thing he’d said was that it didn’t matter. He’d merely found his voice again to say it didn’t matter.
 
Dismissing the urge to squeeze his eyes shut once again, he quickly added something more, knowing quite well that his words hadn’t been enough, “the situation is pretty clear.”
 
He had feelings that were not reciprocated. He’d done something stupid he shouldn’t have done. He doubted there’d be any more to say, anything he could delve into further. He didn’t want to, most of all. Some things he wanted to keep.
 
With a careful glance, he turned around to face the older man, who was merely observing him, standing a few feet away, the frown deepening, his arms crossed over his chest (perhaps, to maintain some distance from him).
 
“No,” his tone was harsher than it’d been before, like he believed he hadn’t understood the gravity of the situation. It was quite the contrary; and precisely the reason why he didn’t wish to discuss it, “I don’t think it is.” He shook his head, to emphasise the meaning. Then, he looked on the verge of taking a step forward, but decided against it, nearly losing his balance.
 
“You can’t—” Stéphane’s voice gave up on him and he passed a hand through his hair once more, “—you can’t just kiss me,” this time, it was nothing more than a whisper, something scared and small weaved into the words, and he didn’t know how to interpret it. But the sound was jarring, like nails scraped on a blackboard.
 
Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, he said the sole thing he knew had to be right, in that moment.
 
“I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” There was nothing else he could muster, but they were certainly the most important.
 
Unfortunately, he could not breathe a sigh of relief, because Stéphane wasn’t satisfied; apparently, he thought he hadn’t adequately understood his fault, had to teach him a more severe lesson. Rub salt in the wound.
 
“Obviously,” he couldn’t stop a certain bitterness from seeping through and it slammed against him like it’d taken physical form. “People could have seen. Do you know what they would assume—” Deniss immediately cut him off, before he could fall down a rabbit hole of useless arguments. That was ridiculous. No one would have assumed anything strange. And no one had seen. He had to make him see reason; remind him he needn’t worry.
 
“They would assume I’m an idiot with a crush. A very teenage, very unrequited crush on his coach. They would know it has nothing to do with you.” His gaze had drifted away, without him even realising, his heart too ashamed to even look in his direction; but, when he found him once more, he looked absolutely shattered.
 
Oh, fuck.
 
Perhaps, he’d been wrong in assuming. Perhaps, he hadn’t known.
 
After a moment of stunned silence, his voice trembling, he asked him about it, sounding unsure how to deal with the situation; sounding like he couldn’t believe his own blindness.
 
“Do you? Have a crush on me?”
 
Ignoring the blush creeping along his cheekbones, Deniss cleared his throat. He felt indeed very idiotic, right then. He’d both come out (and it was quite relieving, to outright say that he liked men without feeling any shame, without feeling any need to swallow down those words and hide away in a corner, a voice he didn’t want to listen to screaming in his head that he was a sinner, that he was wrong; he’d always known it wouldn’t have been a problem, not with him) and accidentally admitted something he should have never spoken out loud (which was more of a problem; he wished he could have come out without having to talk about the reason he’d understood in the first place); that was more than he’d bargained for. But, then again, he hadn’t been bargaining for anything when he’d kissed him.
 
He had to say something, now. He couldn’t lie, couldn’t pretend he’d never said it, not under the intensity of those dark eyes, still searching for something he wasn’t even certain he could find.
 
He didn’t even understand what Stéphane was searching for. Perhaps, a sign that this was nothing more than a cosmic joke? The sign that his student hadn’t had feelings for him for years and he had never realised a thing? The catchphrase, the moment he’d burst out laughing and tell him he couldn’t believe he’d fallen for that? All of the above, he imagined. He’d be sorely disappointed, then.
 
The confession tumbled out of his lips like a catastrophe, though it wasn’t difficult to detect his confusion, his utter bafflement at the fact that he hadn’t known. He had to be blind, indeed.
 
“…Yes? Ever since I first saw you skate.” He was saying more than he should have, more than he even wanted, but he needed him to know. He didn’t want any more misunderstandings between them. Stéphane’s distress seemed to grow even deeper, a new sheen to his pupils that hadn’t been there before; had he not known any better, he would have thought he was on the verge of crying. Also, he didn’t understand why that was so difficult to believe. “I thought you knew.”
 
The older man shook his head, quickly. It appeared he’d mostly done it to maintain his focus, avoid running where his mind had meant to wander, more than to confirm his suspicion. This time, he was the one who had lost his voice, and Deniss felt the need to speak for the both of them, fill that unbearable, suffocating silence. He hated it. There had always been comfort in being silent with him, in their wordless understanding. He’d ruined it forever.
 
“I mean, we spend all of our time together…” it was rude, to imply that he should have known because, after all, he hadn’t been vocal about it. Sure, he had been very vocal about Stéphane being his idol and inspiration, but that was hardly a hint to look any further. And if sometimes he blushed or stuttered it was because he was still shy, still uncertain. Nothing else.
 
Stéphane barely seemed to hear him, anyway, staring in front of himself. He wondered what was running through his head. This time, he imagined, he was searching for the signs of everything he’d missed. He frowned. “Does it bother you?” His coach nearly jumped, like he’d forgotten he was there.
 
“N-no,” he blurted out, voice higher and louder than it should have been, that single word wavering. But he must have seen on his face how little he believed him. He rubbed a hand over his face, his whisper nearly drowned out by his skin. “Maybe…”
 
Deniss merely shrugged. Not because he didn’t care, but because he understood it. He wasn’t sure what he would have done in his situation; but, being himself, he knew he’d survived with it the past years, he’d survive with it for some more. He’d always known this went one way. It’d gone one way long before he’d met him.
 
“It’s just a crush. It’ll pass.” Stéphane seemed surprised that he was taking his rejection and his reaction so well. Nearly offended. Had he expected him to throw a tantrum about it? “And I promise I won’t do anything stupid ever again.” If it was reassurance he needed, he was willing to give it to him. He was the one who had needed it, at some point, even though it’d been for a completely different reason. But Stéphane seemed anything but reassured. He seemed—unsteady, no less than he’d been before.
 
“Good,” he muttered, and then repeated, like attempting to persuade himself that it was true, “good.”
 
And yet, there was nothing about him that indicated anything good. He’d looked like a deer caught in the headlight, but the older man looked like the deer after getting hit by the car. Shellshocked, blood-soaked and on the verge of collapsing on the side of the road. He was trembling. It broke his heart to see him like that, wide-eyed, speechless, breathless; it broke his heart even more to be unable to understand why.
 
“Are you okay? You’re shaking.” He took a tentative step towards him, reaching for his hands, wanting nothing more than to steady them, like they’d steadied him so many times before.
 
Stéphane moved out of his way so fast the back of his knees collided with the frame of his bed, and he collapsed against the mattress with the strength of an avalanche. Catching his breath, a hand pressed over his heart, looking down at the ground like it’d personally wronged him. Refusing to meet his gaze, most strangely.
 
“Don’t—” he swallowed the mere air, closed his unoccupied hand into a fist over his leg, “—stay away from me.” It would have hurt less had he been screaming. He just sounded defeated, and it was a thousand times worse.
 
He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up. Their relationship was irreparably damaged. So much his coach couldn’t even look at him, didn’t even want to be in his presence. He began worrying he’d be forced to leave; and he didn’t think he knew who he was without him. He didn’t think he wanted to know either.
 
Sometimes he thought about it, with a gasping sort of awe; he thought about how, without him, he wouldn’t have been there at all. And this was true for more than one reason. Perhaps, had he never known him, he would have never felt such a strong yearning for the ice, to chase that dream until it’d nearly broken him; and it would have broken him, had it not been for him. Had he not been there to stitch together his collapsing pieces, to hold him together when all he wanted, when all his body wanted was to fall apart.
 
He would have been a different person, had he never met him, and it was something impossible to even conceive. He was so ingrained, branded on his very soul; losing him would have meant ripping away a root of what made him himself. It would have left him bleeding, grasping at what was left of his heart. Without him, he was nothing. Without him, he was lost. This couldn’t be the end of them, it couldn’t.
 
He could feel his heartbeat against his throat, tangling with all the emotions he could barely contain, with the need to cry he had to choke down. Although something in him wanted nothing else but to throw himself on his knees and beg for him to forget everything, to forgive him, he knew he could not. It couldn’t be that easy. And he couldn’t be that pathetic. Instead, he sunk his nails into his palm.
 
“I’m sorry,” it came out like a plea, like the plea he’d wished to avoid.
 
Stéphane’s moved so quickly he barely detected the movement, eyes once more focusing on him, though it seemed looking at him physically hurt him.
 
“It won’t happen again. I swear,” his voice broke on that last word and Stéphane’s hand seemed to twitch, ever so slightly, over his chest. But, this time, he didn’t seem worried, nor angry; he seemed scared. Somehow sad.
 
When he spoke again, he understood why, to a certain extent, though it didn’t do much to dissipate his confusion.
 
“It’s not your fault,” his tone was rather firm, something telling him he hated seeing him like that, hated how he’d allowed him to believe, even for a second, that his reaction had been his fault. The problem was that it didn’t make any sense; there wasn’t any other reason for him to behave such way, to react so strongly to his closeness.
 
Stéphane beat his hand against his chest, which such strength he heard an echo. “It’s me,” it was nothing more than a pained whisper.
 
He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how the hell they’d gotten to the it’s not you, it’s me point. He didn’t understand how it could be him.
 
Running a hand through his hair once more (the movement was beginning to irritate him), Stéphane glanced away, ever so briefly.
 
“I—" the word died against his lips and he squeezed his eyes closed. “God, Deniss.” This was the first time he said his name after the accident, and it felt like lightning. It burned and nearly killed him. Got under his skin, seeped into his veins. His heart lost a beat at the sound. At the way he pronounced every syllable of his name like they were something precious, something he wished to protect with every fibre of his being. At the way it also sounded like a plea for forgiveness, although he didn’t see the reason. He was the one who should have been apologising, not vice versa.
 
Something quite odd was going on. And his mind was having a hard time understanding what, exactly.
 
But Stéphane continued, trapped into his own thoughts, into his own words, unaware of the confusion he was putting him through. He spat what he wished to say through his teeth, with a hint of revulsion in his tone, “I’m old—” Deniss blinked, before answering instinctively, in a way that made it seem more like a question than anything else. Where was this even coming from?
 
“You’re barely thirty?” It was the truth, after all. He doubted someone his age would ever have been considered old. More than that, it didn’t make any sense for him to be saying any of this. He’d misplaced the thread of the conversation and couldn’t find it for the life of him.
 
This had started with a stupid, childish choice; for some reason, it’d gotten them there, with his coach trembling and unable to look at him, and him more puzzled than he’d ever been.
 
Without any warning, Stéphane leaped back to his feet, throwing his arms in the air.
 
“But I—” once more, whatever he’d meant to say died before it could escape his mouth. But there was a deep crease between his eyebrows, like he couldn’t believe he wasn’t getting what he was trying to tell him. If only he’d been a little more straightforward. His cheeks had reddened, perhaps in rage, perhaps for another reason.
 
He stared and stared and stared for an excruciating moment. Then, he turned away from him, hung his head low, exhaled deeply. While he’d been nearly screaming, before, his voice returned to being nothing more than a whisk of wind. He wasn’t even certain he was talking to him, “—what would the world think of me?”
 
Oh. He was once more worrying about how people would react if they ever learned of what had happened. He couldn’t help but think it was ridiculous, because no one had seen, he was sure of it. And it’d forever remain their secret, without any risk of escaping and falling into the wrong hands. He’d never speak of it again; in all fairness, he didn’t know why they were still talking about it.
 
“What would you think of me?” the older man’s voice had gotten even softer, even lower it was a wonder he even heard him. Yet, it didn’t make anything any clearer. Why would he—why did Stéphane think he was the one in the wrong in this situation? What would he think of him about what? He hadn’t done a thing.
 
Unless—no. Now, he was the one being ridiculous. But, when he indeed attempted to catch that thread he’d lost and chase back every stitch they’d made, he didn’t see any other reason.
 
“What?” he still asked, in desperate need of some clarification before his mind went places he should have never attempted to reach.
 
It turned out to be the wrong thing to say, because Stéphane looked at him once more, eyes still wide, black holes of worry and fear; there was a glint of something akin to panic in his pupils, nearly melded with the irises. He was so out of his mind he approached him once more, forgetting everything that had kept him away. He clasped his hands in front of himself, looking on the verge of collapsing to his knees before him. Like he’d persuaded himself he’d understood what he meant to say and wanted to beg for forgiveness.
 
“Deniss, I don’t—I didn’t—I’ve never—” he seemed frustrated with the way he’d entirely lost his ability to make a complete sentence. He was hardly a person who ever had any difficulty with words. He’d broken him, and he didn’t even know why. He didn’t want to know, perhaps. It would have made things so much more complicated.
 
Before he could think about it, he reached forward, took hold of his arm, to steady him.
 
“Calm down,” the firmness, the determination in his voice surprised him. It suddenly felt like their roles had been reversed, like the situation had twisted him into the responsible one, for how strange that was. He’d been anything but responsible that night. “Breathe.” His coach shook his head, like a stubborn child. Tried to pry himself away from his hold, but he refused to relent, at least until he spoke. Made things clearer.
 
“I can’t!” He eventually blurted out. There was something frantic about him. He was the beginning of a forest fire, still possibly unharmful and yet, impossibly dangerous. His skin was hot beneath his fingers. He was watching him like he couldn’t believe he wasn’t as panicked as him; like he couldn’t understand how he could be so calm in such a situation. Something odd was indeed going on, yet, he was certain it was merely a misunderstanding. He wasn’t the only one who was confused, that much was evident.
 
“Something is wrong with me,” there was so much despair to his voice it nearly took physical form and cut through his skin. “With what I feel.” And what was it? He still hadn’t told him what exactly he thought was wrong with him. He was still being vague, beating around the bush.
 
He didn’t even realise how much misery he was putting him through. He’d said he’d be fine, and he knew himself enough to know it was true, but this situation was becoming unbearable. His mind was falling down a rabbit hole, a rabbit hole filled with everything he’d ever wanted, every yearning he’d hidden in the dark.
 
He couldn’t, he couldn’t be saying what he thought he was saying. It didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t make any sense.
 
But his mouth felt dry and his hands felt clammy and his heart was once more threatening to take flight. Had he been saying what he thought he was saying, would it have been so terrible?
 
Frowning ever so slightly, he let his arm go, realising with impressive lucidity how much he was making him uncomfortable. He was suddenly dizzy.
 
“Are you? Is it?” Perhaps, it was the wrong thing to say; perhaps, he should have reacted the same way Stéphane had earlier, when he’d kissed him. He should have grabbed his shoulders, hands worried, kind and tender, and pushed him away.
 
Should have told him that whatever he thought he felt, wasn’t real. That he was merely tired, and confused, and mislead. That everything he wanted was simply not to break his heart, and in a desperate attempt not to do so, he’d flooded his mind with possibilities that had never existed in the first place.
 
But he couldn’t bring himself to. He’d spent too long thinking something was wrong with him and what he felt. He’d broken himself to pieces until there was nearly nothing left, moulded himself into someone different, closed himself into a box that had never belonged to him, in fear of the consequences of being different. He felt he was just starting to free himself from those chains which had held him back for so long. He couldn’t tell him his emotions weren’t real, that they were somehow askew. He couldn’t.
 
“You know it better than me,” was the only answer Stéphane gave him and he didn’t even understand what that was supposed to mean. He had no reason to know it better than him. He didn’t know it better than him. He knew nothing better than him.
 
Grabbing onto his arm once more, the hold softer, in an attempt to comfort him, he gazed right into his eyes, pretending he didn’t know what effect it had on him.
 
“That feelings are hardly ever wrong?” because that was what he knew; and, yes, it seemed he did know it better than him. Feelings were hardly ever wrong, when they sprouted from love. He’d doubted many things before in his life, but he’d never doubted that Stéphane loved him. Even though he didn’t love him like he wished to be loved.
 
“Hardly ever,” Stéphane replied, using his words against him. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because he’d meant that hatred was a feeling he could hardly understand and never forgive. His coach stared at him for a long moment, eyes searching, taking in everything he was. “You’re—you’re a child!” he said, throat bobbing; he was once more trembling, his eyes darkened.
 
And excuse me he was absolutely not a child anymore! He’d already rejected him; he didn’t need to insult him too.
 
“I’m nineteen!” his tone was harsher and angrier than it’d been the whole night. But that was precisely how he didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t want to be cute; he didn’t want to be a child. He hated how he couldn’t see that he wasn’t either, anymore.
 
He was an adult, he could make his own choices; and, to be fair, he’d been making his own choices for way longer than he should have in the first place. Stéphane sighed.
 
“You’re still young,” there was something apologetic about the way he said it, like he’d made it clear enough he’d offended him, and that had never been his intention. “You’re young, foolish and confused.”
 
Sure, he was young. Sure, he was foolish (what had happened that night had confirmed it). But he wasn’t confused. He’d stopped being confused a long time before. He knew what he felt; he’d learned to know it like the palm of his hand. The fact he’d made the mistake of letting his secret see the light didn’t twist into something any less real.
 
He scoffed; he’d tried to be understanding, but he was beginning to think he’d reached his limit. And he didn’t even realise that being so close to Stéphane and so irritated was dangerous.
 
“The only thing I’m confused by is your behaviour!” he yelled out, tugging the older man closer without even realising he was doing so. They were the same height, thought a distant shard of his mind that was still coherent. He knew he’d gotten as tall as him, but had never felt the full force of it until then. “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal of it.” He didn’t. He truly didn’t. He was overthinking this. There were no feelings, nothing wrong with him. He was simply having a hard time coping with what he’d discovered, with what had happened and with knowing that whichever the outcome was, it’d end up hurting him.
 
He’d meant what he said. It was just a crush, it’d pass. Right then, he needed to shake some sense back into his coach. “You told me not to kiss and I won’t!”
 
He still didn’t know why, of all things, it was those words that shattered his coach’s resolve. His resolve to be the adult in the situation. His resolve to hold himself back. His resolve to be the one who knew better.
 
When his voice collided with him, he seemed—wounded. He blinked in his direction. Blinked. Blinked and blinked again. The movement turned faster, hectic. It took him a moment longer than it should have to realise he was fighting back his tears; tears he probably deemed irrational and childish and foolish. But they were hanging on by a feeble thread, threatening to spill out. And they did, dripping silently over his cheeks. He didn’t seem aware of it.
 
His eyes had twisted into bottomless pools of blackness, but they were no longer unreadable. He caught a glimpse of an emotion, one he didn’t want to name, right before a life-altering (even more cataclysmic than everything that had happened before) confession tumbled out of his lips so strained it had to be painful. He could tell it was meant to be a scream, but this felt so shameful, so sinful to him, it’d chocked him.
 
“But that’s the problem! I want you to!” time seemed to freeze, for a second, as he breathed in those words like they were the air he couldn’t live without. They seeped under his skin and he found himself nearly gasping, caught into something greater, graver than he’d ever expected.
 
And he should have been mature about this. Should have told him what he’d thought since the start, that this wasn’t real, that he’d fabricated a lie in his mind because he didn’t want to break his heart.
 
Yet, he knew from the way he’d said it, like a miscreant on the verge of death, begging for forgiveness at the feet of a saint, that there had to be something hopelessly real. He looked at him like he were the sun, and he Icarus, prepared to fall if it meant being closer to him. He shouldn’t have let him burn.
 
He shouldn’t—but he wanted to. Oh, how severely he wanted to. There was no doubt in his mind this would have all been over, come the morning. Perhaps, he could allow himself to live in an impossible fantasy a moment longer.
 
Against his better judgment, even though he knew falling would hurt, he moved closer, tentatively; testing the veracity of what he’d said, seeing whether he’d react differently when he actually did something he claimed to want.
 
When their lips touched, softly, he expected a recoil. Something similar to what had happened before. Instead, Stéphane pulled him closer, kissed him harder. And it wasn’t that he’d never kissed anyone before him (although he had to admit it’d never been his priority), but it’d always been something awkward, shy; even their first kiss had been like that.
 
This was neither. It wasn’t soft, tender. It was famished, desperate. It was pure fire running through his veins, threatening to consume him. They were so close he wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began (but then again, was that anything new?).
 
Deniss felt himself drowning in the warmth of his body. In the crushing hold he had on him; arms around his waist, hands reaching for his shoulder blades, fingers tracing the edge of his bones.
 
In the thrum of his heart, echoing against his ribcage; beating, perhaps, even wilder than his. In the taste of his lips, in the feel of his silken hair between his fingers.
 
In the scent of his skin; the expensive shampoo he’d begun using years ago, herbaceous, sweet, with a hint of citrus; the salt of the sweat still clinging to him, which made him realise he’d been so worried, so conflicted, he hadn’t showered; the fresh smell of laundry detergent, so impossibly familiar, comforting. He smelled like home. He was his home; he’d been for a long time.
 
He kissed him like time was running short, like this moment was nothing more than a fleeting breeze, a shooting star he had to catch before it disappeared. It was a kiss that deserved such a name. Thinking about how things had developed (from him being absolutely miserable and feeling pathetic, horrible for what he’d done, to them literally making out) nearly gave him a headache; or, maybe, that was the lack of oxygen. Neither of them had taken a breath in a while, but he wasn’t complaining.
 
He wondered whether Stéphane could perceive his uncertainty, feel that he didn’t quite know what he was doing, that he didn’t know what to do with his hands, didn’t know how to angle his head right. Because he could feel how much more his coach knew; and he couldn’t deny that the thought of all the people he had kissed before him sent a spark of jealousy through his veins.
 
He tightened his fingers around his hair, forcing a delicious sound out of his mouth; he almost died. He never wanted to wake up from this foolishness.
 
But eventually, they had to pull apart. And it was apocalypse. For a moment, they stood mere inches away from each other, breathing hard, catching the air they had lost.
 
He looked at Stéphane from under his eyelashes and the older man watched right back, something pensive in his dark eyes. Once more, he seemed sad.
 
With soft fingers, he brushed a strand of hair which had fallen over his eyes away. Deniss found himself so captivated by the movement he tried to kiss him again. But Stéphane placed his fingers against his lips. He couldn’t help but frown.
 
His coach didn’t say a thing, not immediately. He leaned forward, pressed his forehead against his, closed his eyes. Then, he shook his head. His voice was shattered, fractured, as he spoke once more.
 
“No. This is wrong.” It wasn’t. Feelings sprouted from love never were. He tried to fight against it, against this injustice, but Stéphane wouldn’t let him. He pulled himself away. Shook his head again. “So wrong.”
 
Pressing a hand over his eyes, he continued, voice small. Deniss could only watch. “What would the world think of me?”
 
Why did the world matter more than him?
 
“That I—I—” he spat out the following word, though it was evident he was reversing that spite for himself. “Seduced you?”
 
It wasn’t difficult to understand that the concept disgusted him and well, despite everything, he could see his point; he could see why he was worried. They’d known each other ever since Deniss was only sixteen. The word seduced was a milder term than what they would use. Still, he couldn’t allow him to see himself such way, as someone who had done something unspeakable.
 
“They could think that I seduced you,” the words sounded wrong, bittersweet on his tongue. He knew that wasn’t the right thing to say, but he was having a hard time thinking, still dizzy from the kiss, his fingertips tingling. Stéphane seemed exhausted; that single misbehaviour against what he knew better had drained him.
 
Slowly, he sat back down onto the mattress, falling like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. And perhaps, he had. Merely because he’d chosen to carry it, instead of giving himself the chance to be happy.
 
“A man my age should never be seduced by a man your age.” At least, he hadn’t called him a child again. Still, the meaning was clear: I cannot be with you. I cannot be with you because being with you would consume me. But it seemed than not being with him consumed him just the same.
 
At the same time, he knew he was right. He’d desperately tried to push back the thought ever since he’d first hinted at his feelings being reciprocated, had found it easier to pretend he’d lied to himself. The sheer strength of the kiss had dissipated those doubts. It hadn’t dissipated the truth. It hadn’t dissipated the fact that he was right. They’d be ostracized, condemned to hide their love away from the eyes of the world; Stéphane could have lost everything. Feelings were hardly ever wrong, but everyone would have assumed the worst.
 
And yet, the stubborn, childish part of him which had gotten everything he’d never even dared to dream, pushed him to fight for them still.
 
“Well, it didn’t happen.” His coach glanced at him, a pained smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Because it was, indeed, what had happened; before that foolish kiss, the older man had never looked at him with any desire, any longing. With a soft shrug, he gave him the answer he’d dreaded, and knew was coming.
 
“What happened doesn’t matter. I can’t—” his voice caught in his throat and Deniss frowned. He didn’t like how he was still taking the entirety of the blame for what had happened. Stéphane caught onto that, licked his lips, corrected himself, “We can’t,” this time, his voice shattered, tears collapsing on his cheeks like raindrops.
 
And there it was, everything he’d wished to say. I cannot be with you. But I want to; knowing that I can’t, that we can’t, is killing me. Either way, they could not escape this.
 
Deniss shoved back that part of him which refused to give up, because there was very little who hurt him more than seeing Stéphane such way, so lost and forlorn and loathing himself. He knew it wasn’t the cleverest solution, that he could have scared him away, but he felt the desperate, irrepressible need to comfort him, to touch him.
 
With careful steps, as if approaching a wild, wounded animal, he moved closer to him, until he could stand in between his legs. His coach looked up at him; behind all the hurt, all the fear, he seemed entirely captivated by him, drawn towards him like a moth to a flame.
 
There was no way he realised he was moving, when he reached for him, placed his hands on his waist; the touch still burned, but he swallowed the feeling away, because he knew what must be done. He couldn’t allow Stéphane to break himself for him, to shatter himself so completely he’d never be the same again.
 
“Then let’s forget it,” his throat was dry, and he had to pull the words past the tangle of his emotions, drag them out so forcefully he almost felt sick. Because he didn’t want to forget this. He didn’t want to forget that they’d kissed and he didn’t want to forget that they felt the same. It stole the breath from his lungs, to remember something of such monumental scale. They felt the same. Even worse.
 
From the glint he could see in the older’s man eyes, he almost dared to say that he yearned for him more than he yearned for him. He’d never seen him before but now—now that he had, he could not tear himself away. Now that he had, Deniss was the sun and his eyes would never search for anything else in the sky; no other star could compare.
 
He felt beautiful, just like he’d always wanted. Unfortunately, it hurt much more than he’d ever anticipated. He’d been prepared to deal with his unrequited emotions, had done so for years. This was something so different to deal with. He was hopelessly addicted to lips he’d never taste again. But it was better this way. If only they could find another way.
 
Pressing his fingers against one of his cheekbones for a moment, he continued, “Pretend nothing ever happened. That we’re still the same.” Stéphane took hold of his hand, left a kiss on his palm. It was so difficult to pretend, right then. It would have been so easy and yet so dangerous, to get lost in the feeling. To forget how insane, how excruciating the thought of being together was for the older man.
 
“That you’re just my coach and I’m just a boy with a crush you don’t know about.” That was everything they’d been to each other mere hours before. Sure, they had kissed, they had crossed a line, but they hadn’t broken that boundary, not completely. They could still step back; they could still run. “I’ve never wanted you to suffer because of it.”
 
For a long moment, Stéphane didn’t move. He remained there, clutching his hand close to his face, drinking in the scent of his skin, his eyes fluttering close. When he blinked them open once more, focusing his attention on him, there was clear uncertainty painted on his face. Searching for something.
 
“Do you mean it?” he murmured, voice rough, like he was holding back his tears. Deniss nodded, biting his bottom lip, hoping he could see how serious he was. Those emotions of his were hardly the most important thing, right then. They’d never been, truth be told.
 
They had been cataclysmic, had woken him up from a long slumber of compulsory pretences; they had changed his life, in a way. But still, they were things that mattered more. Figure skating mattered more than anything to him. Developing his art mattered more than anything.
 
His feelings were just there. They were something which had gotten so ingrained in his soul, in his blood that they were no different from the air he breathed; they were a certainty, like the changing of the seasons. They were part of him, like the beating of his own heart. He’d be alright. He’d been alright with it for a long time.
 
“We don’t need to break each other and ourselves for it.” Because if loving meant hurting, it wasn’t worth calling it love at all. He pressed his unoccupied hand over the older man’s heart, listening to its frantic rhythm. “I care about your heart.”
 
It wasn’t a love confession, because he couldn’t allow himself such a thing, but this was different. Because it meant more than one thing. Had he not felt such way for him, he would have still cared about his heart, because he cared about him as a person.
 
Stéphane blinked against the tears once again, looking at him with a soft, genuine smile.
 
“And I yours,” he replied, intertwining their fingers. After all, it wasn’t unusual for them to be affectionate with each other. He knew it was true. He knew both of them had learned to love each other before those feelings ever surfaced, that their hearts had been beating at the same rhythm for a long time, attuned, bound to each other by an invisible thread. It didn’t need to change. He didn’t want this to change. That would have damaged them as well. He couldn’t bear it.
 
Leaning closer to him, he allowed his fingers to linger on his chin, draw him towards him, ignoring the darkness of his eyes; ignoring the way they said he wouldn’t have been able to resist, had he come any closer.
 
“Promise this won’t change us,” Deniss whispered, and he didn’t miss the way his coach’s gaze sobered, as he released a breath he didn’t seem aware to have been holding. Perhaps, he’d feared he would suggest they keep away from each other, because he didn’t want to feel uncomfortable and he didn’t want to live on a dangerous edge. Didn’t want to risk falling into his arms again. He didn’t need to; he wouldn’t, not when he knew it would have shattered him.
 
“Promise you will love me like you loved me before.” He was so, so afraid he’d force himself to cease caring, to cease loving him because of the consequences it could bring. He couldn’t lose him. He couldn’t lose the man who had given him purpose. Couldn’t lose the man who had given his feelings a meaning, a rightness that hadn’t been there before. Couldn’t lose the man who had saved him when he was in the dark.
 
“That you won’t draw away from me.” Stéphane shook his head, with such strength it looked like it hurt. He took hold of his other hand, so both of his warm palms were pressed against his cheeks. He looked relieved, like he’d feared the end of this. Like he too, perhaps, had been imagining a life without him, and had found that he could not. How could they draw away from each other, when their souls were made of many pieces of the other’s?
 
“That this tension won’t come between us.” Once more, his coach shook his head, his words still stolen away. But then, after observing him for a few seconds, somehow testing the veracity of what he said, he replied:
 
“We can’t erase what happened.” No, they couldn’t. No, he didn’t think he could ever forget the annihilating way he kissed, could ever forget the way he’d looked at him. “But I cannot erase the way I loved you first, either.”
 
He imagined he couldn’t erase the imagine of him when they’d first met, branded into his mind as it was. He could have never forgotten the kid who would have done anything to chase his dream; who had almost broken himself for it. He could have never forgotten how, in a way, they’d saved each other.
 
This wasn’t the end, not exactly. It wasn’t a beginning either, because whatever they were, had never begun.
 
They were a thread, so intricately woven; a thread that had changed direction, had changed colour, had changed breathe, merely for a moment. The image it created was still the same.
 
The coach and the student, divided by so many impossible things and yet, brought together by their love for their art, for the ice. That would never change.
 
They were never the same thing, but two shards of a whole.
 
It didn’t change, not even when Stéphane pulled him closer, into his arms, down on the bed beside him. It didn’t change, not even as they gazed at each other for more hours than they could count, until the world outside was flooded in light anew. It didn’t change, not even as Stéphane pressed soft kisses against his head, against his cheeks; not even as he murmured, over and over, the same words, like a mantra, like something he could not forget.
 
Mon petit lion.
 
Mon soleil.
 
It didn’t change.
 
It wasn’t the end; it wasn’t the beginning.
 
It was both the beginning and the end of something they’d never been.