Work Text:
You wake up as you’ve been waking up since everything fell apart: dull and slow-thinking. Sore, from the bruises, from every impact on the ice, and the burn of your damaged feet. You blink into the late morning light. You put on your glasses. Your half of the room is a mess of clothes and papers, the waste basket overflowing; you’ve been living out of your laundry basket, which has fallen dangerously low.
You’re so tired of it all.
In the kitchen, the coffee Phichit left has grown cold. You pour a mug and microwave it too long; it burns your tongue. A sharp pain. It wakes you up even before the caffeine hits.
Celestino let you move your practice time at the rink up to the afternoon, because he understands—not completely, but enough. He’s always been a patient coach. Maybe more patient than you deserve. It leaves you with empty mornings on the days you don’t have class, though, and you’ve been spending them lying on the couch, or your bed, or sitting at the table, staring into the middle distance.
You’ve been living like this for months, and you’re so bored you could scream.
There’s instant oatmeal in one of the cupboards, and pre-cooked dumplings in the freezer, but today you open the fridge. Eggs, cheese, and some tomatoes that have begun to wrinkle, you set on the countertop. You butter a pan, and for the first time this week turn on a burner and cook something. It feels—satisfying. When you’ve eaten, you wash the plate, your fork, the pan. The sink is getting full, so you start washing those dishes too. It takes way less time than you had expected, so you wash the stovetop too, and then sweep the floor.
You find yourself relaxing; you’d forgetting how stressful a dirty room makes you.
You shower, and get dressed in clothes other than your sweats, and then put away the rest of your clean clothes. You’ve still got time, so you pile all the dirty clothes on your floor into the empty basket and head downstairs to the laundry room with your phone and earbuds. The washing machine rumbles, and you open the Youtube app. Viktor Nikiforov. Russian nationals. Stammi Vicino.
You watch a few more of his routines after that, but come back to Stammi Vicino again. The jumps are out of your reach, but the step sequence—you can do that. You’ve always saved your scores with presentation.
It’s an absent thought, and horror follows at its heels, but. No one would have to see you. You watch the video again, and then again, until the washing machine pings finished and you have to pause to transfer it to the dryer. Then you run upstairs for paper and your water bottle, and watch it again, but taking notes this time.
Your clothes dry. You fold them and put them away. You’ve got some time before meeting Celestino, but you dress for practice anyway and lock the door behind you. The bus ride to the rink doesn’t seem long, but every detail, sound and scent and view, turns clear and focused. The jolt of the bus. Coffee, held by the woman next to him. Storefronts, trees, signs that pass outside the window.
The rink is empty until you step inside, and the ice freshly smoothed. Your heart beats loud in your ears while you stretch, while you skate circles to warm up, as you finally skate to the center and stop your music, cue up a different song.
When you lean into Viktor Nikiforov’s first curve across the ice, it's something familiar. Something entirely new.