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Chapter Text

The ice was cold that morning, but his heart was colder and so was everything around him. The mist was just beginning to disperse, and Yuri was already practising in the skating rink. There hadn't been a single soul in the entire facility, except for a few employees and the Zamboni driver who had just arrived. The sound of his blades scratching the ice as he danced across the snow-white surface overwhelmed the quiet atmosphere, completing its serene yet eerie energy.

"Fuck!" he cursed and slammed the boards aggressively. The exasperation in his voice was palpable as a sigh passed by his lips. Yuri had been practising a single element to failure and had yet to master it. The quad lutz had broadened his horizons to repertoire and skating vocabulary, however he had yet to perfect it. Although some days he had landed it perfectly, it had not been fully incorporated into his system, thus his attempts weren't quite consistent. Consequently, he had often been driven to insanity, trying to refine this new skill, but his pride refused to give up. He took his skate-guards and threw them against the wall in irritation as he stepped off the ice.

He quickly picked them up and covered his snow-stroked blades as he headed to the restroom. With his leopard-printed towel, he wiped away the sweat that dripped down his flushed face as his reflection in the mirror, fogged by a few stray fingerprints, frowned along him. Yuri slapped his cheeks, allowing his hands to linger on his face a little longer than intended. He only wanted this to be a wake-up call, however it served as a war cry, signifying the death of his inspiration once and for all. As he looked in the mirror one more time, he noticed the boy who used to skate so excitedly fading like a bitter-sweet reminisce of what used to be him. The Ice Tiger of Russia had been put to sleep.

"A hiatus?! What are you talking about!?" Yakov's voice echoed in the rink later that day, as he read out loud the text that Yuri sent him with utmost shock and confusion.

The boy skated towards the boards, where his coach was standing furious, ready to snap at him. He wiped away a streak of sweat that clung to his reddened forehead as he sighed, prepared to accept the usual scolding he received almost daily. His hands delicately rested on top of the boards as his naturally aggressive gaze met Yakov's.

"I already know your opinion, but that's the way I feel right now" he spoke clearly, as his soft panting gradually reduced. He removed his gloves carelessly, holding the black garments within his clenched fist as he stared at Yakov expectantly.

The man stood frozen for a moment, trying to understand Yuri's reasoning behind his wish, however, he made no sense out of anything. The more he tried to process the situation the angrier he grew, and Yuri knew that he was about to explode sooner or later. With a mouth hanging agape, Yakov tried gathering his thoughts and saying something to convince him otherwise, but the words all stuck at the tip of his tongue and felt all the more dry.

"W-what am I supposed to say? Huh!? That you won't compete this season?" The coach spoke strictly, still dumbfounded. His skater rolled his eyes in response, dropping his head to face the ice before he locked his gaze with Yakov once more.

"Make it a year..." He sighed, almost sounding defeated. The devastation in the blonde's voice was obvious by its now quiet volume and mumbled words. The way he averted his eyes betrayed the uncertainty he felt at that moment while announcing his decision to his coach.

"A year!? Are you insane!?" Yakov tugged at Yuri's toned shoulders in desperation, his tone almost painful, like a mother losing her child. "You are at your peak! Yuri! You'd be damned if you stopped now!" Yakov insisted the intensity of his voice increasing as the familiar rough texture of his yells reached Yuri's ears, yet every word felt muffled, distorted, not even strong enough to get into his head, never mind be felt in his heart.

"I'm as good as dead, Yakov. If I compete this season, I know it'll be the worst performance I'll ever give" Yuri's look darted away, refusing to look at his coach practically begging him to stay. His eyes were glazed over as he rebuilt the wall he had to protect his truly fragile soul from the world. And that was it.

"What are you even saying? You're Yuri Plisetsky! You better get your shit together before I-" Yakov was cut off by Yuri's words and bitter glare.

"I said I'm not competing! I can't skate anymore. This is my decision and it's final." Yuri ordered sternly, stepping off the ice and guarding his skates. The boy pulled the hood of his jacket over his head to isolate himself from Yakov's presence. His coach was left standing alone as the skater turned his back to him and walked away.

"You're gonna regret this!" Yakov hissed, slamming his fist against the board, as Yuri secretly bit his trembling lip and bottled up his emotions. The shine of his welled-up eyes hid behind the black fabric of the large hood, its shadow concealing more than half of his facial features. He didn't give Yakov a reply. The mere steps that increased the distance between them were enough to leave Yakov aching in silence.

Yuri found a more private spot to unlace his skates. A small room in the rink with a single bench and a few broken lockers accommodated him. The familiar throbbing reached his foot as he undid his left skate and slowly pulled out his leg. Removing the second skate, his feet took a moment to adjust to the flat carpeted floor beneath him, as he wiped his blades with a cloth. The satisfying feeling of removing the snow off his blade had drawn a short smile on his face as he also witnessed his reflection on its smooth steel.

He packed everything hastily, not wishing to spend more time in the facility today. As he wore his sneakers, he loaded his bag on his back, finally leaving behind an unfinished and painfully glorious chapter of his life.

Days passed and Yuri hadn't stepped into the rink, ignoring the frenzy of calls and the swarm of texts that Yakov and the rest of the Russian team had sent him. A wave of guilt was crashing over him every time he checked his phone and the skates sitting idly in their case in the corner of his room weren't helping either, so he decided to shove them into the closet so as to not look at them and be reminded of figure skating. But there came the medals and certificates that hang on his walls, proudly displaying his achievements, the ones he hoped to forget for a while. So he moved out of his room, sleeping on the couch for a few days. His neck was sore from melting on the armrest every evening as he shifted uncomfortably on the small surface of his cold sofa.

Yuri's house was always empty. Other than his lonely self and his moody cat, Potya, there was nobody else for him. Potya would occasionally cuddle him at night, filling the empty spot in his heart with a little bit of warmth; and even if she wasn't able to understand him fully, he made his days a bit more bearable.

One night, as he was lying on the sofa with his cat curled up against his lap, he felt the need to move his body. He had been avoiding the rink for a week and although he didn't feel like ever going, his body craved the habit of being pushed to its limits. Moreover, he ditched other activities as well, such as regular walks, connecting with others, the gym, ballet classes and even school. The slightest hint of joy he'd get out of them had now been lost.

Maybe, he thought, just maybe, he had to stop sitting idly. Maybe it was just an impulse. Did he really want to return to the rink? He didn't think so. He dragged Potya against his chest, hugging her closely as she complained with a harsh meow at first. She then began purring, making his heart flutter as he pets her head gently, his fingers sinking into the heat of her rich fur. Maybe it was okay like this. He could settle for the warm embrace of his cat and the coldness of his living room for a while. He couldn't lie, he felt oddly comfortable not having to face the sudden loss of his inspiration so directly, so face to face like he would if he had continued skating on ice, but still that feeling of emptiness persisted.

More days passed and he was now completing two weeks off ice. Two weeks off everything, if he's being honest. The heat of the first sun ray that caressed his face woke him up immediately and he stood to stretch out his neck and back (a habit he developed as a skater as he practised very early in the morning). The clock ticking was the only sound present in his living room. He took a brief look at it. It was 5.48 in the morning. He was eighteen minutes late to his morning routine, but that no longer bothered him as he was not interested in commencing with it.

He went to the kitchen to fetch a box of chocolate cookies and a glass of milk. The thought of Yakov scolding him for not paying attention to proper nutrition crossed his mind, but he shook it off almost instantly, as he knew, neither he nor Yakov considered himself a skater. He sipped the cold milk absent-mindedly. Returning to the living room, he searched for the remote control of his TV. It lay discarded under the small coffee table layered with dust. He picked it up, his bony fingers pressing the standby button to turn on the device in a lifeless manner. Viktor's latest interview was streaming on the sports channel. The familiar smile he saw through the screen of the athlete he used to admire like no other had him dwelling on feelings of self-loathe. So, he switched the channel. Again, again and again. With disappointment evident on his face he finally turned off the TV, wrapping himself up in a blanket as he leaned back on the sofa.

The newfound taste of sugar tingled his palate as he took a bite of the first cookie he had in months. The sweet scent of cocoa and butter brought him an odd sense of comfort as he savoured every bit. After he downed the glass of milk, the guilt crept up on him again. All those prohibitions on simple pleasures had suddenly been lifted, but he didn't feel free, not in the least. He was enslaved to his very own mold of perfection he used to flawlessly fit into. So, one seemingly harmless cookie was in fact a big deal.

Yuri glanced at the time. 6.10 am. Not much time had passed, indeed. The clock was ticking at an agonizingly slow pace as he blankly stared at it for a few seconds when something tugged at his heart. He felt himself die. Or rather, he couldn't feel himself at all. All this for what? 

Weeks later the media blew up. Stars of the skating world hit his personal accounts asking why he wouldn't compete. He saw all the messages, read through every single text and yet didn't respond to anyone. Articles flooded the internet, rumours spread like the plague and the netizens of the figure skating universe engaged in an online discussion about him with fervour. 

"Yuri Plisetsky retired?"

"Where is Yuri Plisetsky?"

"Why is Yuri Plisetsky not competing?"

"Is Yuri Plisetsky okay?"

He turned his phone off, silencing it beforehand. And with that, the young boy lay on the couch again. The shine in his eyes no longer reflected as the mental exhaustion pulled his eyelids half shut. The once vivid turquoise pool surrounding his irises had turned dull and still. He wasn't ready to put up with anything anymore, so he closed his eyes, desperately snuggling a pillow. As if seeking solace, he covered himself from head to toe with the fleece blanket and slowly drifted to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Yuri's condition was worsening as days went by. His mind was like a blank canvas unable to revert the situation he was dragged into after losing his inspiration. Nothing felt right, not when he wasn't moving, not when his body was idle, when his mind was foggy like a mirror in the winter after a burning hot shower, incapable of showcasing any form of image besides a hazy blend of faded colours and a sense of uncertainty. Yuri refused to believe he did everything just for it to end up like a misty mirror.

One Saturday, he got up late; 9.11 am, that is. The feeling of waking up while the sun was already shining, bringing a bit of warmth to the usual cold mornings of Moscow, was unusual for him. Although the sunlight had sparked a certain feeling of minor ease within him, he couldn't deny that he felt guilty knowing Mila, Popovic and Viktor were working relentlessly while he was here waking up by the time they had finished their morning session. Frankly, he never experienced anything like this before.

In that same morning, he knew he had a ballet class with Lilia at 10 am. He thought of whether he should attend or not, and he thought for a while. It was now 9.34. If he had finally decided on going he would have to get ready quickly. So, he picked up his dance bag and checked if his canvas soft-shoes were inside. He took them out, examining them for a second, noticing the worn-off fabric and the greyish colour that stemmed from the soles and reached out to the canvas around them, tainting the vibrancy of the slippers that used to be white. He shoved them back in the bag with animosity.

He stripped quickly, leaving his clothes lying wrinkled on the floor. Slipping into his white ballet tights, he noticed his body had changed. A portion of which he remembered clearly as muscle was appearing a tad bit indefinite today. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him though, but the feeling of frailty was beginning to feel genuine. He pulled a casual t-shirt over his naked torso, short-sleeved and of a deep purple colour. He checked his phone; 9.42 am. He still had a moment. He grabbed his bag and a jacket and went outside, pulling the door shut and locking it carefully.

The studio was about ten minutes away from his house. He hurried and made it a six-minute jog, reaching the site at 9.50 am, just ten minutes earlier than the class. He stepped inside, dropping off his things in the lounge before removing his sneakers and wearing his ballet slippers. The white elastics hugged his high arch accentuating his perfect cou de pied. He glanced at his feet for a moment. The harsh bruising from skating slowly faded into lighter marks that peeked between the elastics.

Lilia immediately recognized Yuri. With her usual egocentric demeanour, she stepped towards him calmly. Her elegant poise granted by the countless years of training as a prima and the stern look in her eyes had Yuri subconsciously enter a state of vulnerability.

"Quite the nerve is what you have, Mr. Plisetsky. And what is this? May I know?" She pointed at his hair, pulling on a blond strand before harshly letting it go with a whip that reached his cheek. The woman seemed oddly calm, yet furious. She couldn't bear to look at his sorry state, although these feelings weren't rooted in care, but in a sick form of perfectionism.

"Tie it up, right now" she ordered, narrowing her eyes at the sight of her student.

"Yes, ma'am" he mumbled, his gaze pinned to the ground without a hint of confidence to uplift his tired eyes. He took a hair tie and pulled his hair up in a ponytail.

"Good" the prima nodded approvingly, without a trace of affection or satisfaction in her high-pitched voice.

"You quit skating, I heard" she added, raising a brow and crossing her skinny arms in front of her. Her skinny fingers tapped restlessly against her forearm as she waited for his answer.

"I did"

"Irrational decision. Did you at least talk it out with Yakov?" She questioned, closely examining his face. His features remained still, unmoving and lifeless. He spoke as though he was a walking corpse.

"Yes, ma'am"

"You certainly look terrible" she commented, clasping his jaw in her hand and tilting his head forcefully to check for any sign of change he might've undergone. She noticed he had, but chose to remain quiet, her strict attitude towards him not faltering for a second.

"I don't feel very well. I think I'll just take it a bit slow today" he replied, the words slipped out of his mouth, sending Lilia into a spiral of anger.

"If you don't have a solid purpose, I suggest you leave. I don't care if you're unwell. Underperforming is not allowed in my studio. I'm already doing you a favour by letting you train here today, you understand, brat?" Her grip on his jaw tightened and her eyes acquired a hard glare that fired towards him. Her voice had risen enough to have a few students turn their heads at her, before quickly returning to their original position.

"Yes, ma'am" he spoke, as she let go with a push. The boy stumbled briefly but regained his footing. He'd usually fight back and find some snarky remark to tone down Lilia's attitude, but today wasn't the day.

He stepped into the practice room, taking his usual spot at the barre as he did a few stretches to warm up. A few girls and boys were already there, chatting and stretching as well, waiting for Lilia to initiate the lesson. The vinyl flooring felt foreign under his feet for the first time in a while, and that's when he realized he might've forgotten the feel of his skates and the ice as well. Yuri glanced at the mirror opposite the wooden barre, looking at his body. The image of his reflection almost appeared distorted in his eyes. In reality, nothing was wrong with him, but the feeling in his gut grew suffocating as he watched himself and how he moved. This was the first time in a while that he had looked at a person with a kind of hatred he only found in the essence of his very being.

Lilia walked into the room, obviously upset, but capable of hiding it perfectly under the strict mask of a ballet instructor. As she walked down the room, all of the students went silent, taking their designated positions at the barre and standing still. She eyed every single one of them carefully before her gaze lingered on Yuri. Glancing at the clock, she greeted them coldly before starting the lesson.

"Face the barre, we'll begin with a warm-up," Lilia spoke with a distant look in her eyes. She explained the combination and walked by the students while they performed the exercise. She checked them carefully, correcting a few errors here and there when necessary. Lilia kept on stealing glances at Yuri, occasionally looking him up and down to pressure him intentionally.

The lesson went by finely. Yuri picked up the first few exercises, despite finding focusing on the combinations getting all the more challenging. He pushed through it like he always did. Lilia noticed the drastic change in his performance. Suddenly, his technique had become poorer and his flare was completely wiped away. A few minor errors here, a few minor errors there, a mild memory slip and Lilia could no longer tolerate his performance. She stepped towards him while the music was still on, completely humiliating him as she dragged him away from the barre in irritation.

"Have I ever, ever" she emphasized the word intentionally. "Have I ever shown anything this offensively abysmal?!" She yelled, poking her index finger into the boy's chest, as his gaze remained fixed on the floor. He refrained from answering her statement-like question, remaining still and mute.

"Are you going to straighten that damn leg of yours? Huh?! Will you point your feet like you mean it or will you keep showing me this hideous sickled disfigurement of a limb?!" Lilia yelled, indifferent to the boy's pronounced affliction.

"Look at me!" She slapped him across the face, her somewhat large hand leaving a red imprint on his cheek. This wouldn't be the first nor the last slap he received from Lilia, but it was surely the most painful one he had ever experienced. It wasn't even that bad in terms of physical pain, but it made him choke on the very oxygen he breathed. If he was being honest, he usually wasn't one to care about such trivial scoldings, but something about this specific way she called him out and exposed him made him internally suffer in distress. The melodic echo of the piano contradicted her harsh demeanour towards the boy, adding a surrealistic aspect to the moment. The rest of the students stared in confusion and worry. The boy's eyes flooded, glazed over as he looked back at her. His eye bags pulled down his eyelids that barely moved enough to reveal his irises. They exchanged looks, but it felt as though a barrier had formed between them.

"Don't you dare cry! Suck it up! I don't want to see those tears, Yuri Plisetsky. You're a dancer, act accordingly." Her tone was grave, as she crossed her arms before her, regaining her composure.

"What are you looking at? Back to practice!" She clapped her hands rhythmically as she walked towards the speakers where she restarted the track. The harmonious sound of the piano filled the now silent room as Yuri took his place at the barre, the pain of the slap firming in his gut instead of his cheek, as he endured yet another lesson with Lilia.

Never again, he thought to himself. The class had finally come to its well-awaited end and Yuri was left panting, seemingly unused to overworking himself, which wasn't the case. He panted as his brain was still in that overloaded state of struggling to match the pace of Lilia and her selection of apprentices. He entered the lounge where he had left his things and aggressively removed his ballet slippers, shoving them again in his bag.

He was utterly disgusted with himself. He had never performed like this before. No, this wasn't even him— in the sense that his soul was missing. What he experienced couldn't have been him. He is perfect. He is a prodigy child, born to captivate, forged with talent and refined with effort, defined as a paragon of a skating sensation, an apotheosis of the term enchanter that introduced the world of figure skating to its present apex. So, he refused to believe he was anything lesser than that. No, he couldn't have been.

A lump formed in his throat chocking back the goodbyes and the typical small talk he'd have with Lilia after each session. He hated her, God, he hated her so much right now. For making him wish for death while desperately struggling to revive something he used to regard as a passion, he wanted to kill her in hopes that it would revitalise his expiring zeal. He swallowed, forcing the lump deeper down his throat, yet the more he did, the more it sprung back up, mocking his futile attempts to remain completely unbothered. 

He picked up his things and left. Walking down the street he recklessly crossed the road multiple times, desiring to get hit by some vehicle that could've happened to be there. A look of disappointment washed over his face as he realized he made it home safely. If he got hit he'd just tell everyone that it was an accident. He knew his grandpa would be saddened though, so he loaded yet another day of misery on his shoulders, hoping that he'd be able to take up a few more before he had to kneel before his lack of vigour. He had been standing outside his door for about a minute or two, trying to muster the energy to open the door and resume this seemingly never-ending cycle of tormenting dormancy.

Chapter Text

To bend. His soul was used to bending every day; bending to a breaking point each time and yet remaining adeptly integrated and it was all thanks to the sense of perfectionism, which was imbued in his performance. Life was a skating rink and whatever he did should've been utterly and ultimately perfect.

His mind revisited the memory of the recent ballet lesson with Lilia. It scratched his brain and damaged his already withering pride, refining the tragedy with each and every thought that occurred to him. He polished the memory with his thinking; his oh-so-mindless thinking that weakened the traces of resolve he had left.

He was no longer Yuri Plisetsky. He bore that name, yes, although Yuri Plisetsky sounded more like a title he lost. The same name was nothing but an insufferable burden on his shoulders. He missed being him, he missed being a champion, a brat who knew nothing but success, an athlete whose vocabulary consisted of every word but that of "failure". He missed that. The carefree attitude, the falls that hurt his body more than his mind, the hectic schedule, the late practice sessions, the competitions, the awards and the praise, all seemed like a faint glimpse into the realm of a vivid dream.

He was kneeling on the marble floor of his living room with his dance bag tossed next to him. Breath ragged from exhaustion and eyes widened from shock, he took a moment to compose himself while gripping his shirt tightly and pushing his clenched fist against his throbbing chest. He wished he could disappear off the face of Earth after his mediocre performance. He knew he did not belong to the skating community anymore, he knew the ice would no longer claim him, and the rink had no room for him. In the same sense, the dance studio could not embrace him; and frankly, he didn't want it, he did not claim it as his passion. It used to be a medium to conquer greater heights in figure skating and nothing more. He thought he should've seen it coming. After all, if you don't have any inspiration left, you're as good as dead.

What should he do now? Where should he go? Who should he turn to? He realized he was alone, and it hurt him deeply. Now that he felt stripped of everything he thought composed his worth such as competitions, performances, certificates, trophies, medals, the media, he felt as though he didn't deserve to reach out to anybody. He was so used to being perfect that the tiniest hint of a flaw would murder his ego. In the past, he would find strength in pride, rooted in his constantly inflating ego. But who would help him now that he had no strength to spare? Who would waste their time in understanding him and his struggles?  

His chest ached all the time; all the damn time, and he was getting tired. The state he currently defined as laziness was eating him inside out and the more he explored this feeling, the guiltier he grew, and the more he wanted to scream while ripping off his own pained heart in desperation.

A nap would help, a nap always helps, he thought. He stripped down to his underwear, tossing his clothes freely across the floor, making his way to the oddly comforting accommodation only his sofa was capable of offering. His skin was still damp with sweat, adhering to the cotton cover of the furniture. He closed his eyes, urging the day to go by quickly; and it did. About the time the majority of his neighbours would have finished supper, Yuri had just woken up. 

The first to greet him was, of course, the usual neck pain he'd get for picking the couch over his bed, which only gathered the wandering dust as he refused to sleep in his room. The boy rubbed his sore nape and stretched out his neck before getting up.

Strangely enough, he thought of revisiting Lilia's studio. Even though she judged him harshly, she was the only person whose opinion of him mattered less ever since. He couldn't get back to the rink, because he was scared of Yakov, overwhelmed by Viktor's work and comments, and stressed from Popovic and Mila constantly questioning him. However, Lilia's studio was different. It was hell, but it wasn't as stressful as the rink. The torment would sit heavy upon his body and mind, urging him to constantly offer peak performance and graceful features, dismembering his soul and putting it back together, piece by piece until his image was nothing less than perfect. Lilia had made it clear: ballet was not for beginners.

So, after a couple of weeks, he found himself fiddling with his canvas slippers again. He traced the worn-out elastics and discoloured hem. His mind was so conflicted, stuck between a dilemma of needing to move and wanting to stay idle. He couldn't bear either of the two, nonetheless. The fear of returning and feeling like a loose link in the chain repulsed him, yet the fear of falling behind so much he couldn't bounce back bothered him even more.

A deep breath scattered his thoughts further. He placed his slippers on the living room floor, giving them a bitter glance before sighing deeply. Lilia's voice echoed in his head, intensifying the permanent headache that accompanied this dull afternoon. He missed his old self more than anything, but he was no longer sure who he missed. In a sense, what he used to be felt foreign.

Maybe, just maybe, somewhere in his heart he felt the need to go back to dancing. He longed to pursue some form of artistry without the weight of his skating career dragging him down. He couldn't possibly expose himself to the eyes of the public; not when he wasn't the Yuri Plisetsky, and the skating rink was a stage expectant of his breathtaking performance. 

The studio, on the other hand, was a simple room where discipline and willpower were the only requirements. To Lilia, he was nothing but a slab of meat; an exquisite, divinely blessed slab of meat, just like every other dancer. His background, status, feelings and identity were irrelevant in the studio. Everyone had to fend for themselves when put through the challenges of an artist-athlete. Fortitude, perseverance and solid resolve were the only things Lilia ever asked for, and Yuri had cultivated all these qualities year after year, hence Lilia's prominent favouritism and authoritarianism towards him.

Beyond his gender, Yuri was Lilia's one and only prima ballerina who enchanted the viewers with their powerful yet feminine energy and rich expression. In a distorted way, Lilia regarded Yuri as a girl; a young, capable and strong girl she ought to break down as many times as she deemed necessary to strip every last flaw off of him. As Lilia allowed the garden of her twisted chimaera to bloom without stint, Yuri found himself walking in a minefield, painfully aware of his instructor's delusions. 

He indeed did have the strength of a man and the physique of a young girl. He was relatively short and although athletic, he still possessed a feminine body; small waist, long dainty fingers, bright, but warm complexion, hair that shone in the subtle caress of the light, revealing its silky texture, as the strands of his sun-kissed crown danced the risky tango the wind had to offer. His eyes were like an ocean blessed with a sweet climate, blue and deep contradicting his dark irises that intensified his gaze. A hint of green outlined the azure pools in his eyes, adding a moreish warmth to his appearance.

Lilia didn't even bother hiding her sick obsession with Yuri's femininity. She even convinced him to get on pointe to strengthen his ankles for figure skating supposedly. Although his ankles did become practically unbreakable, the reason behind her instruction was to admire him as a prima. She loved him, she adored him and she wanted him to keep dancing despite his ambitions, his goals, her own harsh criticism and sharp tongue. Lilia was completely charmed by his irreproducible talent and she had to keep him to herself, in her studio, under her guidance. Lilia wanted Yuri and she would have him one way or another.

Yuri was used to Lilia's treatment, the way she'd chew him up like gum whenever he got overconfident and aggressive enough to rebel against her word or how she'd spit him out, utterly ignoring him when he was desperately trying to impress her, to improve, to succeed. Even at his lowest points, he hadn't witnessed a single day of mercy. He had always experienced the same thing over and over, nothing but a cold-blooded battle to achieve perfection and he had to comply because neither Lilia nor the world would lower their standards for anyone, no matter how talented he was.

He quickly grabbed his phone and dialled Lilia's number. Her phone barely rang a single time before she picked up the call.

"Hello." Her voice sounded distant, yet expectant. Her cold tone sounded unusually cordial this time, having Yuri wonder what had brightened her mood that day.

"Hello", he replied, almost choking on the simple greeting he uttered quietly. 

"Hurry up, why did you call?" she responded firmly. Yuri swallowed the unmoving lump in his throat before gathering his thoughts and thinking about his phrasing.

"Do you do private lessons?" he asked, almost not believing himself. He desperately needed to dance again, but not on the ice. Frankly, he was scared of Lilia humiliating him before her students, but he was willing to take the risk. He'd rather feel lesser than worthless.

"Privates? For you, not anymore"

He felt as though Lilia had been intentionally kicking away the pieces of his already shattered self-image he so miserably tried to reassemble. That made him hate her, but he couldn't deny how much he needed her at a time like that. 

"Join my class on Saturday morning," she spoke in a way that felt as though she was ordering him around, yet pleading with humility; asking him to endow her class with his presence. She cut him down many times before, letting him bleed in a pool of the incompetence he so despised, and once he tasted its bitterness, almost suffocating in this unbearable sensation, he would spring back up, rise like a bright sun dominating the lightless sky.

"How many students attend the class?" he questioned, almost fearful of her answer. For a moment there was silence, the soft crackle of the line barely scratching his ear.

"That matter shouldn't trouble you; however, for your information, the class consists of three young ladies —one of them an insufferable newcomer— and a gentleman whose coup de pie shall yield him little success." Lilia was quick to belittle her students' efforts, speaking ill of them and disguising her insults behind the mask of brutal honesty and tough love.

"Refrain from excessive contemplation. We are currently engaged with Vaganova's Grade 6 syllabus. The present class significantly diverges from the standards we previously achieved together, therefore I anticipate your ability to keep up" she added, trying to further convince him.

He took a moment to respond, his eyes darted everywhere, bouncing from one wall to another, at the thought of rejoining Lilia's studio. His fingers gripped the now warmer edges of his phone, sliding ever so slightly as the layer of sweat between them stirred his nerves with teasing little bolts of adrenaline.

"I'll check it out" he replied, wondering why his heart began racing all of a sudden. He almost wanted to slap himself in the face for feeling anxious talking to the mentor who had essentially prepared him for the previous Grand Prix season.

"10 AM. I recommend you arrive somewhat earlier to warm up your body thoroughly"

"Yes, ma'am"

Lilia hung up without the need to voice a greeting.

Yuri felt slightly better by scheduling with Lilia, and even though he loathed the humiliation he wished to rediscover even a trace of inspiration he once had felt showering him with abundance. 

He set his phone aside, letting the screen slowly die as he gazed out the window, witnessing the darkness adorned with countless stars, some brighter than others, some flickering, some dying in the limitless of the cosmos. The broken streetlight, devoid of any glow allowed the stars to steal the spotlight with their humble yet mesmerizing presence. A light unexpectedly tore through the dazzling imagery in front of him, fading as its luminescence died out before he could fully fixate on it. Oh yeah, it had been the right time to enjoy meteor showers —perseids, to be exact. It had been August after all, still.