In which Pav gets an unexpected visitor years after the Olympics with an equally as unexpected gift.
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262,900
The heartbreak was clear in his eyes. It manifested in the way his calloused hands trembled and his breath came in short pants. The token of his greatest possession was being auctioned off so he could try to pay to undo his mess. So he could try to make a better life for his daughter whom he so dearly loves.
The higher the number went, the further his heart sunk. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he didn't account for the sharp pain accompanying the bang of the gavel. He placed a hand over his chest, as if something in him hadn't actually expected it to be gone. That the finality of the loud sound pierced through his heart in a way no word could have done.
But he watched as they took it off the block with the accompanying soft claps. Part of him urged him to jump out of his seat, to run, snatch it back, and demand there be no sale; but the other part of him, the part that loved, could think only of his daughter. He'd take a million broken hearts for himself, if it meant something better for her.
He watched it disappear from view for one last time, practically falling from his seat as he tried to hold it in his line of sight as long as he could. He tried to tell himself that the medal was only a representation of an experience that lives on in his memories. But there's something about holding it in his hands, feeling the cool of the metal against his frail hand, the weight against once strong palms. It glues the memories into his brain.
But he won't be able to hold it anymore. No more speckling gold to glitter from its spot on his mantle. All for $262,900.
$262,900.
A clear feminine voice had rung out with the final number. It was sold to some pretty lady in the back. Pav couldn't bear to turn and look at her. He didn't want to see the one who ended up with it - no matter how pretty she might be. He knew he'd end up in a fit if he did. Not wanting to draw that kind of attention to him, he got up from his seat, and he silently left the building.
He walked home at a sedated pace, feet dragging over dusty roads. Down the streets towards his little house he slowly moves. The front porch feels like an eternity away, as does his very lifeblood.
She would have been the one to comfort him in times like this. Y/n was so perfect when it came to that kind of thing. He had some sort of unspoken bond with the part-time rink attendant that none of the others could replicate.
She was the first person to ever truly understand him. She was the only one who, when she looked him in the eyes and told him it was going to be okay, he believed. She always knew just what to say - or how to be silent and simply hold him - for whatever he needed. She could pull him out of his spiraling head with just a touch.
