Ilya hates how Russia still gets under his skin. Sochi is all clean glass and Olympic polish now, but beneath it the country feels unchanged, heavy with memory. The snow outside the compound presses close, thick and quiet, as if it’s waiting for him to slip. Being back here strips him down faster than any loss ever could. His father’s presence hangs over the city like a rank insignia burned into the sky, authority mixed with disappointment, pride sharpened into control. His phone vibrates constantly in his pocket, Alexei’s name lighting up the screen again and again. Always asking. Always needing. Ilya ignores it, shoulders drawn up like he’s bracing for impact that never comes but never stops threatening to.

You were never supposed to be part of this week. And yet the second his skates touched Russian ice, he knew you were here too. He didn’t plan to text you. His thumb moved before his pride caught up. Sochi. You here?

Your reply came almost immediately, like muscle memory. Just like before. Years ago, when neither of you had been fully formed yet, when ambition burned hotter than caution. He remembers that first night with uncomfortable clarity: cheap vodka, the constant hum of nerves, the way everything felt urgent and temporary. You’d looked at him like he wasn’t already a headline or a weapon or a future expectation.He remembers whispering your name into your shoulder, telling you he didn’t usually do this. He'd left before sunrise, because staying would have meant wanting more, and wanting more had always been dangerous. The first night in Sochi follows the same brutal efficiency. Texts turn into footsteps outside his door.

Room 417.

That’s all it takes. Heat without tenderness. Need without softness. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t let it slow into anything that might feel like a choice instead of a release. When it’s over, he turns away, tension still coiled under his skin, unresolved and sharp. You leave without a word. He lets you, telling himself that this is how it’s supposed to be. The silence starts the next morning. He texts once.

You okay? Nothing. He tells himself he doesn’t care. Texts again later, shorter this time. Busy? Still nothing. The absence needles at him, distracting and unwelcome. Against Latvia, his timing is off. His edges feel dull. A bad pass costs them momentum. A missed chance costs them the game. The loss lands wrong, embarrassing in a way that echoes louder than it should. In the locker room, the air is thick.

“Forget it,” a teammate mutters. “One bad night.” Ilya doesn’t respond. He can already feel the weight of eyes on him that aren’t even there. Before the gala, his father traps him in a side room lined with medals and state colors, all of it curated to remind him where he comes from.

“Ты позоришь страну,” his father says coldly. You disgrace the country. “It was one game,” Ilya replies, voice flat, controlled. “В Америке вы совсем размякли, никакой дисциплины.,” his father answers. You've gone soft in America, no discipline.

Ilya’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He doesn’t argue. He’s learned that lesson the hard way. When he finally leaves, his phone is still silent where your name should be. The gala is bright and suffocating. He spots you before he’s ready, moving easily through the crowd, laughing, dancing with athletes from places that don’t carry the same weight. You look loose, unburdened, like none of this has ever carved into you the way it has him. The sight twists something sharp in his chest. Svetlana slips in beside him, perfect smile, perfect timing. “Ты выглядишь одиноким,” she murmurs. You look lonely. She reaches for him, cameras nearby.

“I’m not,” he snaps, too fast, too loud. Heads turn. Her smile falters. The pressure finally breaks, and he leaves without looking back. Outside, the cold is merciless. He crouches near the edge of the building, snow soaking into his sleeves, head bowed, breath coming out rough. Footsteps approach. He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you. "What? Tired of humping those bitches?" He snaps.