Chapter Text
At the height of his career, Viktor stands alone on the silver stage. His breath is focused, intentional. With each exhale, a little white cloud escapes from his mouth. There’s a chill in the air of the ice rink, but Viktor isn’t cold. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, warming his anxious body. His arms are outstretched in front of him, his fingers grasping for something just out of reach. His back arched ever so slightly as if wings were protruding from his back. He could fly away now. He’s tasted success before. But he has a hunger for it.
The crowd chants his name: “Viktor! Viktor! We love you, Viktor! You’ve got this, Viktor!” But he cannot hear them, only the drumming of his heart against his ribs. And the ache in his legs. Maybe you’re getting too weak for this, Viktor. Maybe it’s time to call it quits. You’ve already done it before. Do they really need to see it again? But it isn’t time to think about this now. There are circles grooved into the ice, the motions of those before him. The caper of ambition. Others want to taste the bitter of golden metal between their teeth. Viktor needs it like the lungs need air.
The lilted breath of a Piltoven aria fills the space, and cheers grow to hushed whispers. Viktor springs to life, wings outstretched. He glides across the ice, a ghost floating through the air with the haunting voice of the opera song. He strikes the ice with the toe pick of his skate, inhales—the first combination. Triple flip, his body lands shakily on the ice. It's not perfect, but he sticks to the landing nonetheless. There’s no time to break a sweat as his body enters the next jump. It’s like he was born to it. Double toe loop, he lands with arms in arabesque towards the crowd. Easy , he says with his body. Or at least he hopes he makes it look that way.
Now is what matters. The second combination. The judges eye Viktor with a critical eye from across the rink. They’ve read his program. It’s zealous, but this wouldn’t be the first time he’s surprised them. Maybe he’ll do it. Maybe he can make history all over again.
The quad axel. He was nineteen years old when he did it. He was younger then, and the pain wasn’t quite intolerable yet. He didn’t care much, anyway. It wasn’t even ambition then, but a daring sort of recklessness, an overconfidence. He believed that he was that good, so he was.
It was his second time in the Senior-level Grand Prix circuit. His last year had been a poor showing. That year, Viktor refused to let history repeat itself. He would earn a victory for Zaun and make a name for himself. And that he did. The quad axel had never been landed in competition before by any other skater. Not before Viktor.
And this year, at twenty-one, Viktor would do it again. His coach said it was crazy. The old man had scrunched his crooked nose when he suggested it but obliged. In the worst case, Viktor would fall and get back up again. At least he had tried it, to show them he wasn’t like the others. The fact that he did it at all would be enough.
His left foot steps forward. The next moments happen in rapid succession. First, he jumps forward. Second, he is in the air, and it feels like he might meet the stars as his body twists away. Then it all goes wrong. His body hits the ice, and the pain comes soon after. A sharp heat pierces through his right leg, followed by a dull throb. Something isn’t right. This wasn’t like normal, and he’d never felt this kind of ache before.
A scream is heard in the crowd, and someone looks like they might be crying. He sees the rest like a montage—the faceless bodies rushing onto the ice, lifting him up, voices of concern. He thinks he sees his coach, his furrowed eyebrows. And then, the pain becomes louder than his thoughts, and it is all black before long.
——
Jayce Talis was there the day it happened. He was there with Mel Medarda, too, his pairs partner. A golden soul, with legs crossed and a head held high. Although, she said she didn’t care much for the Men’s singles. They didn’t have the grace and poise that the women did, she said. Still, she came with him.
Mel’s mother—also their coach—wedged herself between them on the seats. Whenever Jayce tried to steal a glance in Mel’s direction, he felt the growing weight of Ambessa Medarda’s steely gaze on his shoulders. “You need to pay attention, Jayce,” she would growl. “This is what the pros look like. Your little Junior competitions are nothing compared to this. One day, you two will be on that ice.”
The rink stirred with an excited energy as Viktor Evdokimov took to the ice. Jayce remembers it still, the calm before the storm. He wore a glittering purple top with mesh sleeves and a neckline that plunged far down his chest. If Jayce squinted, he could see the light reflect on the intricately embroidered embellishments in a way that almost looked like blinking stars in a night sky. He nearly felt self-conscious of the homemade costumes that he had his mother make for him. This is what the pros look like , Jayce considered Coach Ambessa’s words. Soon, it will be me on that ice.
As Viktor flew, he brought Jayce into the clouds with him. His turns and jumps were flawless—no wonder he was so adored. Fans cheered and waved around cardboard cutouts of Viktor’s face. A sea of green Zaunite flags, eyes sparkling with admiration. And for a moment, Jayce wondered if it would be sacrilege to do the same. Lost in the daydream, he almost didn’t hear the scream.
Mel gasped, clasping her hands around her mouth. Ambessa shook her head in disbelief. The glittering star of Zaun, the gold-medal-hopeful. Splayed out on the ice like a kicked puppy. He had tried it again, all for it to fail?
Jayce felt a pang in his chest, a dream turned sour. It’s funny, really. How little you matter in the grand scheme of it all. Fate doesn’t care if you have something to prove, a competition to win. You can have everything in one moment and then lose it all in the next. As the medics scooped Viktor’s twisted, unmoving body onto the stretcher, Jayce knew it was over. You don’t come back from something like this.
Mel turned her face to the ice as Viktor was carried away. “It’s awful,” she whispered. Jayce thought he might cry. And yet, somehow, he felt more determined than ever. The flame of passion grew dim and sputtered. But it flickered, still.