Ice

The ice was a fickle mistress. He understood that better now that his competitive days were behind him. Sometimes he ached for it - the motion, the control, the chance to be completely outside himself if only for the length of time it took to complete a routine.

He had nothing like it now; not in his career, not in his personal life - what little he had of one since he and his book came out.

They still loved him in Europe, in Japan and Korea, and especially in Russia. When he was there, they cheered and gave him gifts; they let him shine.

At home it was all tabloids and paparazzi. So many who once called themselves fans now lapped up every sneering word the press fed them. Those who hated him when he was on top now stood in line to take their piece of him.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not like this...

The battered skates were heavy in his hands, and dusty from lack of use. His old work-out clothes were gone but his body was no longer fit enough for them anyway. He wouldn't even be here today if not for the phone call.

So many who he once called friends are barely acquaintances now, pushed away by pride, drifted away without the ice to keep them connected, or lured away by their own life changes.

The call had been a shock - had it really been two years? It was the shock that made him weak and made him agree to the request.

He'd regretted it ever since.

But he was here, heavy, dusty skates and all.

The rink was empty and he wondered what that might mean as he took the familiar path to the locker room and prepared himself. Braced himself,
more likely, he mused as he stood, taking a moment to reorient. It was like riding a bicycle, wasn't it - something his body would remember even when his mind was too full of other thoughts.

He stood one step short of the ice and cast up... not a prayer really, but an invocation to whoever might care to listen, that this once-familiar mistress wouldn't cast him out.

A breath, a correction of posture and he stepped out onto a surface as smooth as glass. He glided forward and breathed out a shaky breath. His old mistress would be kind today.

As he moved, executing random patterns of turns and footwork, his breathing became easier and the weight that had settled in his chest lessened just enough that he dared a jump. It was only a double and his landing was shaky, but he smiled anyway before going into a spin.

The air was cold, but it still thawed a part of him he thought too far gone to save. His next jump was a triple, decently executed and he celebrated with a snippet of one of his favorite exhibition programs. He swiveled his hips in a way his former coach wouldn't approve of and turned for a fast skate around the ice just to feel the exhilaration of it.

He was at the farthest point when someone else stepped onto the ice.

For a split second he considered taking the nearest exit. The seductive ice won and he picked up speed for a jump that he'd sweated blood for, yet never managed to bring to his competitions. It was one more thing they'd demanded of him that he'd refused to give.

But now, for *him* he would present it on a platter.

The ice let him go easily, the frigid air caressed him as he turned and turned, turned and turned before the ice welcomed him back.

He half expected applause, but instead there were arms, outspread and welcoming. He was there before his traitorous mind could sabotage him and when the arms closed around him there was warmth and acceptance that he hadn't felt for so very long.

Breath ghosted across his hair and he looked up into eyes bright with laughter and joy. Finally he understood what a fool he'd been.

Safe in that embrace he laughed until he wept.

::end::

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