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PROLOGUE ❆ VICTOR

Author's notes, TW & CW
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March 25, 2013

It's cold in St Petersburg tonight.

Victor's wearing a coat and a scarf, of course, but the cold wind blowing in from the mouth of the Neva still nips at his legs and nose. He hasn't taken a walk down the river in a while. It's nice here. He passes the Summer Garden on his left, a tangled mass of bare branches behind the fancy iron fence. He passes the bridge and keeps going, striding down the mosaic stone of the walkway, his bare hands stuffed deep into his pockets. He's wandering, yes, but wandering with a vengeance, his eyes fixed on the ground except for the moments he looks up to stare hungrily at the scenery. Maybe he'll find some peace if he walks fast enough, if he looks close enough at the details of St Petersburg. It's a beautiful city. A breathtaking city.

He can't help but feel the passerby's eyes on him as he passes, head down. He wants to take their shoulders and scream, I belong here too! I was born here!

This isn't like you, Victor.

He keeps his head down, restrains himself. The wet tracks left by his tears of frustration sting in the cold air.

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July 30, 2013

There are rumours of arrests and violence in Chechnya. They're talking about the propaganda laws on the news again. Putin's talking about the importance of traditional values too, trying to get his approval ratings up. It's unclear whether it's more depressing that he's doing it, or that there are enough people in agreement out there that it actually works.

They arrested protesters at the Field of Mars, dragged them away. In St Petersburg, not 15 minutes from here, only a few days ago. Victor might have been there if the time was right, might have watched the meagre crowd be driven away by police.

Victor doesn't watch the news much.

He has to focus on skating. No time for stressing over the state of his country. No time for worrying about Chechnya, that's far away from here. Focus on the ice. Focus on the Grand Prix. Focus on the Olympics. Eyes on the prize, Victor. Eyes on the prize.

The fear is getting to him. Why is he afraid? There's nothing to be afraid of, don't be stupid, Victor.

His balance is off. Shit.

He gets back into the groove right away, but Coach Yakov notices. He stops the routine right away with his usual grumpiness, and Victor skates over, abruptly embarrassed. He's braced for the usual 'pull yourself together, what's wrong with you' speech, but Yakov just looks at him. "Are you feeling alright today, Vitya? You look pale."

Oh, God, this is so much worse.

Luckily Yakov continues with the usual grumbling tone: "Don't skate if you're sick. You'll injure yourself for no good reason, and it will be your own fault."

Victor laughs, loud, shrill in his ears. Yakov can tell it's fake, by the look on his face. "No, I'm fine, just a bit tired... I stayed up too late last night drinking." He adds some embarrassment into it. That's what makes it a good lie.

"Hm," Yakov says. "That's not like you."

"I was with some friends."

Yakov grunts doubtfully, but nods and lets it go. "Pull yourself together. We can't have you fumbling your signature move when it matters."

"Yes, Coach!" Victor calls, a drawn-out singsong as he retreats back onto the ice. The music starts again.

❆

He's been doing these midnight walks for far too long. They never work. He gets home at one in the morning, shaking from fatigue and anger and restless anxiety, and he doesn't get any sleep, which only makes it worse. It's just not safe here. He needs to keep himself safe, be his own guardian. He needs to prioritize that. There's nothing else he can do for himself besides make sure he's safe from violence of any kind, and his best defence is secrecy. But this stupid restlessness, these midnight walks, the shaking, the anxiety...

He needs help. He needs to tell someone, anyone, he needs someone to know, he needs—

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April 2, 2014

"Coach Yakov," Victor says as he tugs his skates off, "How do you feel about the propaganda laws?"

Yakov doesn't seem to make much of it. It's good that Victor's turned away from him, because his heart's hammering and he's definitely way too pale. After a moment, Yakov replies: "педики?"

Victor's stomach sinks. "Yes. What do you think of them?"

"It's necessary. You can't show that stuff to kids," he says. "Maybe Americans can put up with it, but we have to have standards in our country. Why do you ask?"

"Just thinking about the Olympic boycotts," Victor manages through the nausea.

"Is that why you were so distracted in Sochi?" Yakov scoffs. "How many times have I told you not to let whining Westerners distract you? You have your choreography to worry about."

"Of course." Victor laughs, in that particular way that means he's not listening. His whole vision is static. "I'm going to go get something to eat."

"Don't drink too much this time," Yakov scolds. "You should be practicing early tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah."

Victor flees.