Chapter Text
In the eyes of the Segyein, they were nothing more than flowers.
Alluringly romantic spectacles, produced from years of cultivation, that could be gawked at, picked, and eventually sold. Captivating investments, for a wintry garden of frosted dreams.
Profit.
That's all figure skaters were.
Many of the athletes would find this concept repulsive, of course. They would wail and protest— challenge the patience of those in charge by spewing the same unwavering nonsense. A constant headache for fellow skaters, but less than a minor inconvenience to the Segyein. Some flowers would bawl over training, over expenses, over their alleged abuse— for which no one could seem to provide any true evidence.
It was no surprise to anyone when those flowers were crushed.
He couldn't understand why the truth was so hard for others to grasp.
Now, that's not to say he particularly cared when flowers were found crumpled in a pile of their own mangled petals and shriveling leaves.
No, the sight was completely avoidable, and he wasted no time pitying the result of pathetic defiance.
Why would he? When they blatantly ignored the truth that had been stated to them to such an incessant degree. It truly wasn't that difficult to comprehend the fact; they just refused to acknowledge it and faced the consequences.
They must not have come from the same place of desperation, he eventually concluded. For if they did, they would blossom just the same. If they truly wanted to prove themselves, to reach the podium, to flourish, then they would've just accepted it. Just as he did.
He, who was so divine. Who would never wilt.
He understood that he was but a piece of entertainment for the Segyein, grew to embrace it even. Living with the truth —taking pleasure in it— became second nature. To others, he was just a pet, wandering aimlessly in a cage. But he was perfect. Enchanting and delicately designed to be the flawless blossom that the audience harnessed the greatest affection for— the obedient athlete, The Garden held the most pride for.
Maybe, in truth, he was just a fragile plant swaying in the wind. But knowing that, accepting it as gospel, made him perfect.
His mere existence was idolized by those so much stronger than he was. By those who could— if they wished— crush him in an instant.
Despite that simple reality, the audience, the Segyein. They all worshipped him.
Gave him their love, and by extension, the intoxicating illusion of control.
That's what made everything worth it.
"Luka Bauer, everyone!" A commentator shouts, though the announcement is mercilessly unheard, drowned out by the thunderous roars of a relentless audience.
The crowd is an amalgamation of cheers and stuffed animals; the plush toys were technically prohibited at the Florescence, but rules, of course, did not stop those from sneaking them in. Hundreds of them rain down onto the ice, as fans and Segyein alike applaud.
Some spectators, moved to tears by the performance, screech to such a visceral degree that you'd swear they were screaming in agony.
In the center of the commotion stands Luka. Physically lower than the rows of people encircling him, but high above everyone else in the arena. Perfection himself. He wasn't just a flourishing flower. He was a celestial force.
Ever so unwavering as a toy golden retriever lands just a few inches from his skates, Luka smiles. The arena's uproar, borderline deafening, only intensifies as he sweeps up the plush dog, before turning again to bow with it in his arms. A golden ambience blooms from the princely charm of his expression, effectively masking the tinge of blue that no doubt begins to shade his lips.
He turns once again, this time towards the general vicinity the stuffed animal came from, and blows a refined kiss to the bunch of supporters from which it could've originated. One fan, holding up a flag with his face on it, goes a deep hue of red and appears to collapse within the crowd.
"And he does it with ease, truly, a sight to behold! Again, this was "Heavenly Lie", this year's free program from our angel!"
Perfection.
The audience's relentless cheers reverberate in his eardrums as he prepares to leave the ice; Luka utilizes the shrieking as a distraction, though focusing on it has him wishing to bash his head into the rink boards. The sounds drown out the erratic vibration of his heart hammering against his ribs.
Don't falter.
It has always been like this. It will always be like this. Honestly, in what world would he not be the best? His long program contained five perfectly executed quadruple jumps, his spins were extraordinary, and his flexibility has always been a diamond in the rough. His high marks in choreography and technical elements combined to make exceptional, no, astronomically impressive scores overall. He was sensational.
His skill was inhuman.
A vise has wrapped around his chest and works to constrict his airways. Each shallow breath of frigid air burns like an endless fire searing his lungs.
Do not falter.
Luka Bauer wasn't just the best; destined to be 'a sight to behold'. He was an angel, made to soar on the ice.
Perfection.
The crowd's screams are morphing into something else. The ringing in his ears becomes seemingly impossible to ignore, even as he forces himself to concentrate on their cheers.
Are they satisfied? Are they looking forward to the upcoming season? Was his performance enough?
He knows the answer, of course. He was their everything. He would never allow himself a mistake. Never fall. Never fail. Never disappoint—
Luka is perfect. Luka is an angel.
He can't breathe.
"Excellent performance, son," His coach— his father— greets him as he steps off the ice. In an instant, the stuffed animal is being taken from him, as white skate guards are being forced into his trembling hands.
Everything is blurry; his lungs are screaming.
Do not falter, Luka.
A forceful grasp seizes his shoulder in a demanding attempt to hold him upright. His back is to the audience, as he finds himself relying on the boards— and his father's touch— to remain steady.
They are still watching.
The cheers are endless, the audience still relishing in the angel's show. They likely have yet to notice that their star is burning out right before their eyes; nevertheless, his father's hand nearly squeezes all feeling out of his arm.
Luka straightens, inhaling sharply— to the best of his ability. He addresses the crowd a final time— his practiced smile projected on the rink's comically large Jumbotron— before quickly sheathing the blade of his skates and focusing on the hand directing him out of the booming arena.
The walk back to the dressing room is silent— the suffocating hallway now vacant and devoid of life, as skaters begin to regroup in the lobby. The only sound, aside from the clacking of his skate guards on the concrete floors, is the uneven rhythm of Luka's breathing. Every inhale is unnatural, mechanically shaky, and occasionally interrupted by a muffled rasp as a suppressed cough rattles deep within his chest.
The assertive presence tightens its grip on his shoulder as they make their way through the seemingly endless corridor.
Perhaps it's the lights— fluorescent, and nauseating, even as they reflect against the grey flooring. Or the bitter cold, still prickling at his skin as they enter the locker room. Or maybe just the distant realization that he's finally out of the audience's sight.
Whatever it is, Luka cannot help the sharp gasp that escapes him as soon as the door shuts.
The angelic mask shatters instantly.
With it, the barricade of control he possesses over his body seems to crumble, and he's powerless against the wave of fatigue that works to virtually drown him. The weight of his limbs becomes suddenly unbearable, and he sways. Wheezing now, he leans against the wall, using it to steadily lower himself to the floor.
"The human body cannot handle perfection," His father had once told him. "It's a heavy tax, even for those born… 'flawless'," Luka remembers distinctly the way his father cringed at the words.
He always attempted to view his son's 'flaws' as if they were mere holes in the ice; hindrances, yes, but they could be ignored— patched over. Eventually. Father rejected the idea of any potential hazard, even those that could pose true jeopardy, the longer they were left unaddressed.
"This just means that you will have to work harder to maintain your talent— that perfection. And you will."
"Even if you must fake it, you shall be perfect. Understand?"
Luka was perfect.
Luka was wilting.
Disregarding the crushing eye of his father, he instinctively reaches for his chest. Pressing a palm against his sternum, as if hoping the pathetic movement would alleviate the growing tightness compressing his lungs.
Luka attempts to count each beat against his ribs— tries to identify and establish some sort of rhythm— but he can hardly focus on keeping track when the earsplitting sound of his heart racing is an overwhelming, immeasurable force that consumes him.
Simply living day-to-day had quickly become a lavish expense on Luka's body.
Adding perfection to that bill?
Now that would cost him his life.
He finally opens his eyes to the faint knocking of a water bottle at the side of his head.
"You need to monitor your heart rate, Luka."
His father looks down at him— gaze so cold, it mimics the icy surface he was on just moments ago— before tapping him again with the bottle. Stifling a cough, Luka extends a trembling hand to seize the offering.
"When your heart begins racing, you quickly allow everything else to deteriorate— subconsciously or not," Father sighs, crossing the room to gather a set of luggage. "You did well, at first, but I could tell you lost control when you started rushing through the step sequence. On top of that, your loop was sluggish, and you hardly held the end position."
He allows his father's voice to pierce the fog clouding his mind; he holds onto every word, repeats every syllable to himself as his labored breathing begins to steady.
"It was a careless performance," Father contradicts, before pausing to glare at Luka once again, his striking gaze unforgiving.
"You can't double over just because you're off the ice, either. You are better than that. What are you to do when this happens at a true competition? The cameras will be rushed to your face, and you won't have the luxury to retreat. You know that."
Luka understood this, of course. He had been careless. For years, his mask had been perfect— and though no one in the audience seemed to notice, Father did; he would not excuse his laziness.
Yes, his fate was technically in the hands of the Segyein now, but his father's approval was an endless venture that he could never rid himself of.
He could be leagues above any competitor, but he would still be flawed in his father's eyes.
For he didn't wish to raise a son.
He instead longed to create a doll.
The perfect one, naturally. A doll that wouldn't hesitate in front of the cameras or stumble after training. A puppet that would entertain and not crack under pressure; that would make everything appear as though it was second nature.
One that could be fractured again and again, but would never lose the porcelain mask his father seemed to adore.
Expressionless and compliant.
Perfect.
"If I can see your exhaustion, the sponsors can too; it will only deter them from you."
The Segyein declared any manifestation of humanity as weakness, and though Luka has been a consistent investment for the previous decade, they would crush any flower that became too much of a hassle to keep in their garden.
"We clearly need to focus on your stamina. Again," Father exhales sharply. "…Which is fine, I suppose. We will still work toward raising the number of quads, too."
Luka chokes. Suddenly coughing, he pulls the bottle from his lips. Father stares, anger suddenly raging like fire in his eyes.
Expressionless and compliant.
Quickly repairing the vacant mask, Luka straightens and nods.
He had set the world record just two years ago. His clean free program featuring five quad jumps was a revolutionary moment in the sport's history.
It wasn't enough.
"That is the plan we discussed, no?" He tests. "Sponsors want more. You will give them what they want, correct?"
He would give them everything. And more. Even if the show shattered his limbs. Even if the mask suffocated him. Luka would never falter.
He was their angel, after all.
"Yes, father," He responds, tone flat, empty.
The fury in his father's eyes morphs into a bitter ire; his icy gaze could freeze the veins of others, but not his doll.
"All seven."
Five quadruple jumps are extraordinary, yes. But seven will be incomprehensible.
Even if you have to fake it.
Even if it kills you.
Luka remains.
"I believe we could have them all integrated into your free by Nationals. As far as I'm concerned, that should be only fair, and you will prove me right, yes?"
Even when it kills you.
"Yes."
"Good."
"Don't mention anything specific to the sponsors," Father sighs and fishes through the luggage, drawing out a white zip-up; 'Anakt Garden Figure Skating Club' is printed in elegant font on its back, delicately placed alongside the club's logo. "Just hint towards something extravagant in the upcoming months. Though that likely won't shut down their questions."
"God, just thinking of their prying, is headache-inducing." Anyone else would scoff, but Luka watches closely as his father rubs the bridge of his nose. He is almost thankful they can agree on something.
His pulse thrums just above average now, and his lungs do not seem to have completely given up yet, though the pain remains, a dull ache that radiates from his chest to his shoulder. This, however, Luka is accustomed to.
Father crosses the room, extending a firm hand. "I trust you will handle them appropriately."
Luka nods and pulls himself up; even with his father's assistance, he wobbles ever so slightly. Disregarding the spots that cloud his vision as he stands too quickly and swallowing down the bitter nausea, he loops his arms through the club jacket in his father's grasp.
"Let's be on our way, then." Father grabs their bags. Perhaps out of pity, he carries both his and Luka's, though more likely, he doesn't wish to contribute to the image of a weighed-down angel. He does, however, shove the stuffed golden retriever toward his son, still displeased.
"Do not falter, Luka."
⊹₊⟡⋆
The lobby is congested as they enter. Luka works to discern the number of people crowding the room, if only in a feeble attempt to distract himself from the way the lights seem to claw at his eyelids.
Father elbows him forward and glances towards his gloved, fidgeting fingers. He hadn't realized how harshly he was previously tugging at the golden plush's fur.
Right.
Luka relaxes his shoulders, spine straight, but far from rigid. His expression returns to the enduring mask of a prince: the ruler of the ice. Eyes half lidded and a slight— deliberate— upturn of his lips.
Effortless. Perfect.
There are roughly one hundred thirty Segyein cramped into the rink's lobby; they crowd in groups around the remaining athletes— thirteen Anakt figure skaters converse with the sponsors.
The Trial of the Florescence wasn't a true competition. An evaluation would be more accurate, as the event—held at the start of every season—was an opportunity for all of the Anakt skaters. The flower had to present well, perform perfectly, and prove that it would be profitable as it debuted its programs for the season. From there, the Segyein would decide on their next investment— and by extension, predict the Garden's next champion. The unbroadcast event was strict, and if you were caught filming or sharing your recordings online, you risked being sued and fined by The Garden.
Today, the trial is still very private, considering. Untelevised and ungodly expensive. However, thousands of fans spend their life's worth to obtain the limited tickets, if it means having the opportunity to see the Angel's programs just a few weeks before the general public.
These days, for Segyein, the event was an excuse to drown in champagne and cash made from petty bets disguised as a two-day business conference. The trial wasn't particularly necessary when they already knew which blossom would outshine the others.
Complacency was foolish, yes, and the favoritism definitely ruffled more than a few flower petals, but could you blame them? No other athlete would matter, not when your funding went to the perfect one.
Still, most continued to pay thousands of dollars for the Trial out of a wicked curiosity. A reliable investment was entertainment, but watching flowers wilt firsthand was an amusement that they couldn't miss out on.
Luka hardly paid any mind toward rookie athletes, but he knew of several Anakt skaters who had quickly become the brunt of the Segyein's twisted humor. Those flowers would no doubt be crushed in the following season.
The lobby is a cacophony of polished black coats and tailored formal wear. Segyein standard, though the warm buzz of champagne seems to defrost the intense calculating nature of the predators, to an extent.
Luka all but glows in the sea of black, adorned from head to toe in white; his costume sparkles in the light, the fabric at his waist— intended to imply a more androgynous image— flows with every movement. He makes an effort to exaggerate every step, walking with the elegant poise of a puppet given the authority to command an audience.
After the Florescence, Segyein were allowed to speak with skaters personally, in turn painting a clearer picture of the plant they were investing in, and deciding if the final image would be worth it in the end. Their questions could be intrusive. Borderline crude, as they wanted to see how much they could push— how much nectar they could squeeze from each bud.
A flower's resilience was a critical factor in its likelihood to flourish after all.
A skater had to think fast, lest their flaws be found and exploited. If one could quickly identify any decay and deadhead it right then and there, then they had won.
Luka always wins.
Like clockwork, a Segyein immediately pinpoints the angel's arrival— as though they could sense an ethereal shift in the atmosphere— and approaches.
"Oh, Luka!" A woman croons, the sound scratching against Luka's eardrums. Stepping closer, she drags an amateur along with her.
Her perfume clouds the air around them, the potent concoction ever so nauseating. The dizzying atmosphere only grows stronger as several more Segyein— alerted by the woman's display of awe slowly swarm around him. Father's presence fades in the crowd as a few Segyein greet him as well, but he remains close— his eye piercing Luka's being.
"Brilliant, isn't he?" She asks the young Segyein accompanying her, to which the boy just ogles. "Even more beautiful up close."
"What an elegant performance…"
"You should expect nothing less from our Luka."
"Yes, he never fails to exceed expectation, don't you think?"
The Segyein draw closer, converging with one another, circling him like sharks with their sharp smiles and strikingly white teeth.
What a salvation he is to them.
"I'm honored that my performances seem to transcend your beliefs; of course, they shall continue to as we move forward," Luka smiles, bowing his head.
One of the women squeals, her heels clicking on the floor as she steps closer to begin toying with a strand of his pale hair. She mutters something about the soft waves and how they appear nearly platinum off the ice. A few talk about his porcelain skin, and others coo at how heavenly his golden lashes are.
How perfect.
Though one silent predator suddenly demands his attention.
A deliberate hand finds his free one, fingers clasping around his wrist as though he were a child to be dragged off.
"You are enchanting in white, Luka." The man says, lifting Luka's arm. White had quickly become a part of his identity. Rarely was he seen in color. Never was he allowed to skate in black.
The man watches, gaze haunting, as he moves to roll up Luka's sleeve. He challenges for any flicker of resistance, but the angel watches— eyes glassy, unfazed. To which the Segyein grins, a vile, twisted leer overtaking his expression.
Luka is still as the Segyein works to completely remove his jacket— hands lingering for too long on the skater's back as they unveil the glittering top.
"Though, it's quite reminiscent of your Ruler of My Heart costume, hm?" The man folds the white zip-up, pulling it close to his chest, out of Luka's reach.
"Now that you mention it, this one is nearly identical," another male steps closer, inspecting the fabric.
His arm remains hovering in the air, a mannequin on display. Their eyes feast on the cloth.
"Our Luka isn't running low on inspiration, is he?" The Segyein, withholding his jacket, clicks his tongue. He glares, sinister eyes nearly alien as the crooked smile distorts his features.
Luka does not stall, "Far from it," He says smoothly, redefining the mask of serenity by holding their steady eye contact. "The costume for my long program required some more time in production— it's quite intricate. So, I hope you can forgive the delay."
Outfit holdups were common, considering The Garden only trusted a few stylists with tailoring their flowers; this, of course, did not mean that the angel wasn't held to higher standards or, to an extent, blamed when a stylist demanded more time.
"I assure you that it will be worth the wait."
The Segyein hums, though he doesn't appear entirely satisfied.
His hand finds Luka's again; the ill nature of his touch is hidden under a hollow gentleness. The gesture is slow, almost cautious. Careful not to fracture Anakt's doll.
"I know you are not one to disappoint."
"The others will praise your athleticism, but I am always enthralled with your attire."
The man's thumb brushes lightly against Luka's palm, testing the edge of his glove. The thin material threatens to slip.
Segyein wanted a show. They wanted to trigger a reaction. Sometimes, provoking meant physically prying off the masks themselves.
Luka withdraws— slow but decisive.
They were allowed to prod; they were expected to leer. They were authorized to touch.
They could work to virtually peel back every part of him. He had been told to endure it. He would, with an elegant smile sewn on his face.
Though Father had given him one rule. His fingers stay covered.
The order wasn't a polite gesture of respect for his son— not once did he even try to disguise it as such. The gloves were a constant. A tangible representation of the facade. They were necessary when it came to concealing the physical evidence of the flower's decay.
"I look forward to whatever you have in store for us." The Segyein breathes after a moment, his eyes tainted with disappointment.
"Oh, leave him alone, won't you?" A woman steps forward, digging her nails into Luka's shoulders. The sheer fabric grazes against his arms in a way that makes his skin crawl.
"Though, since we're on the topic… You are intending to bring Ruler of My Heart back during galas, yes?" Dark eyes meet his, almost desperate. He holds her gaze; he has been taught to do so. "That one has always been my favorite!"
Ruler of My Heart was exceedingly popular amongst fans; it was the program that aided in Luka's debut in the senior division, and the performance in which he landed the quad axel, becoming the first ever to accomplish such a feat.
This will be the third year in a row he's brought the program back for The Garden's exhibition.
The dance was everything they wanted. An alluring demonstration of artistry and athleticism. And oh, so romantic. It would be foolish not to exploit— flaunt their flower's gifts.
"Of course," Luka replies, voice steady. "It's my privilege to skate for you."
He hated it.
" I view every performance as an opportunity to repay all of you for the support you've shown me. Ruler of My Heart will always be dear to me— I'm fortunate to know you all enjoy it as I do, and I will always be happy to perform it again."
In the beginning, at least.
He had begged Father to allow him to choreograph something else. Something that would be just as promising, another memorable program that would entrance, that belonged to the audience. Anything else. Ruler of My Heart was his.
His love.
Father had decided that was exactly what made it favorable.
The Segyein beams, and his response— perfectly rehearsed to what he knew they wanted to hear— has a few others nodding in approval.
Affection was a weakness, but it could be utilized.
He's learned to accept it now— though that could very likely have been because he had no other choice. Still, fans were too engrossed in his appearance to realize he was virtually baring his soul on the ice, so the "confession" hadn't mattered much.
Performing with love had also proven to be rewarding, as Father had anticipated. Though for Luka, it gave him an excuse to be once again consumed by a passion he never truly felt for anything else.
Luka raises a delicate hand, "But please, don't believe that is all I have planned; there are, of course, several show programs in development, and I will be working to refine them alongside competing. I hope you can look forward to the exhibitions." He glances at the male from earlier, still holding his jacket. "I am nowhere near short of entertainment for you."
His heart will never drain of its devotion. And Father will ensure that every last drop is used to entertain.
The Segyein blinks, and it is thanks to years of conditioning that Luka identifies the subtle lift of his brows as a faint astonishment. Faint— but present.
The angel almost finds the disbelief humorous. After a moment, the man's unnatural grin returns, and he moves to give back the jacket.
Luka always wins.
"Now that is why I love this one. How considerate our Luka is."
"So well-mannered, too! Doll, aren't you charming?"
Another Segyein appears before him in a flash of color, never satisfied.
"Let's not undermine his show today! Luka, tell me more about "Heavenly Lie", talk of charming!" A younger Segyein jumps forward. "The music in particular spoke to me."
That devotion is why he had been eagerly awaiting this question.
"You and I have that in common, then," Luka grins. Since Ruler of My Heart, his programs have continued to revolve around similar themes— and he could speak for eternity about what specifically fueled his passion.
Could, however, did not mean that he should.
Talking about the performance, though, even just thinking about it, reminded him of the faint warmth he had grown to crave so dearly. The soft voice that had influenced every show he put on.
It had been years now, since he'd felt the affection directly, but thinking of it— longing for it in such a sorrowful, feverish way that the emotion almost mimicked grief— was the closest thing to warmth for him.
The Segyein pursue weakness.
Find and cut it out.
Luka opts to speak about the instrumental instead.
"It comes from a Latin artist, though this is, of course, a violin cover. Actually, I recommend that you take the time to listen to it yourself. It's beautiful." Luka begins.
"The original composition explores the lies that one can tell themself when in love, particularly when relationships are built not in truth."
Thinking of his love came easily, but it was idiotic to express such thoughts out loud. He had found that alternatively talking of music wasn't something he needed to rehearse like everything else. Even if he tried, he'd often— much to his own displeasure— go off script.
Perhaps it was in part because each song was intentional. Every choice rooted in his desire.
"Though I've interpreted it as a pitiful denial of feelings." Running away from the truth. "Despite everything, there's still love to be found, regardless of the falsehoods and what is said aloud," Luka reflects. Father's voice echoes distantly in his mind— something about knowing when to stop rambling— but the words almost spill out.
The Segyein appear too captivated by the sound of his voice to notice, but Luka stops himself anyway. However, a part of his thoughts remain fixed on the song. He'd spent hours infatuated with the composition, the vocals, the lyrics.
When he suggested the song be used for his free program this year, Father had advised he use a different name for the program, believing that the song title would be too difficult for some fans to remember. "Heavenly Lie" wasn't too far of a translation anyway, and it was a convenient fit.
"Isn't that tragic?" A Segyein says, to which he smiles again.
It was. The love, the betrayal, the scars left on the soul, never to be erased.
He believed it was beautifully reminiscent of his own heartbreak.
"You perform with such love in your eyes."
"Yes— and such thought goes into your programs!"
Father should be proud of himself.
The Segyein begin to shower him in praise again, but another sinister grin invades his ever-blurring periphery. Before:
"Our angel hasn't fallen for a mortal, has he?"
It was a struggle to veil something so important.
The sponsors laugh. The dissonance is explosive, jarring, and unnatural as it thunders again in his ears, to which Luka just smiles and hums to himself—chest tightening beneath everything.
He finds their tender love on the ice, even now.
It's his motivation.
His flaw.
Luka watches, almost from a distance, as their murmurs seem to blur together. Their endless flattery and sardonic comments buzz around him, the room becoming too warm as they press closer, air too thick as colognes clash together.
Their words seep into his skin, flowing like lead in his veins as his limbs grow impossibly heavier. The plush dog remains tucked closely to his chest, a shield over his heart. The other skaters— long since tossed away by the sponsors— begin to depart into the night.
He doesn't know how long the Segyein gawk. Not that it matters— he was made to be watched. Their questions cease as their words begin to slur from the shallow bottles of champagne.
Then— a hand. Firm, cold. Familiar.
"If you'll excuse us, we should be on our way now," Father's voice slices through the daze. His words are practiced, almost polite, though Luka sees the stiffness in his posture and the strained corners of his smile.
The Segyein protest, a few groaning and clinging to his arms as though he were the sun and they had been starved of light their whole lives; he chuckles at this, even though their touch alone is stomach-churning.
"I appreciate you all taking the time to watch me today," Luka says, smile never wavering. "Your support truly means everything— I hope that you are looking forward to the upcoming season, and I anticipate speaking with some of you again."
A bow.
His mannered reassurance seems to be a comfort for them, and they finally ease their grip as their angel beams— golden, heavenly. Perfect.
⊹₊⟡⋆
Father curses as they exit the rink; a soft September breeze whispers in the night— carrying the faint scent of earth and decaying leaves. It is a stark contrast to the congested brew of perfume, and Luka savors the cool air; it almost alleviates the dizzying ache that throbs against his skull. The stuffed animal now rests carelessly at his side, as his expression has returned to the fixed nature of a doll on display.
"Luka."
Father's voice pulls him from haze.
"In case you need a reminder, I'll be heading out of town this morning— the venue is a three-hour drive, so I'm leaving early."
"Do not push at practice tomorrow. When I return, we'll begin refining everything once again," He says vacantly, moving to pat Luka's crown of blonde hair.
"Rest for now. You've earned it."
For the first time tonight, the touch is tender, Father's eyes softened by exhaustion. If he stares long enough— ignoring the drained part of himself that cringes at the contact— he can convince himself that pride flows just beneath the surface.
Luka was good.
Obviously. He is always obedient— but Father appears content, so he can be as well.
"Goodnight, Father," Luka nods, grateful for his father's continued work. He remains as the hand pulls lightly at his waves, before Father pivots and starts toward the parking lot.
A cricket's continuous chirping almost demands Luka's attention as he settles on a bench not far from the entrance, and finally begins to remove his skates. His posture rigid; gaze empty as his breathing remains eerily level, despite the dull ache still lingering in his chest.
Even alone, he is performing. Perfect.
Perhaps it was not a facade at all.
Laces untie swiftly at his— still covered— fingertips, the action has become so routine he could almost certainly do it upside down in his sleep.
Indifferent to the way his bones pop or how feeling takes a moment to return as he rolls his ankle, he almost allows himself to fade into the fall's breeze, but still cannot find his body truly easing, even in the quiet.
He does, much to his irritation, find himself chewing absently on the skin of his lip— only noticing after a taste mimicking copper taints his tongue.
The plush retriever— discarded to the side— watches as he retrieves the shoes from his bag, its golden fur pale and dull in the darkness.
"Enjoying the silence, Bauer?"
He stiffens.
Of course.
He doesn't need to spare a glance to recognize the vexing presence that never fails to worm its way into his solitude after competitions. Suddenly, the recurring ache thrumming behind his eyes becomes a sharp pounding that rings in his ears.
Luka can hear the knowing, trained smile on his face— almost discern how each syllable forms around the infuriating snaggle tooth that pierces his grin. Just as incessant as he is.
"Not anymore, it seems." Luka finally exhales, golden irises meeting prominent black ones. They smile at each other in greeting— though neither of their expressions seem to meet the eyes. His company takes the snide response as an invitation. Luka watches— traces of frustration seething in his chest— as the nuisance moves to occupy the space on the bench beside him.
"I hear you did well today," the voice says, almost friendly, though disdain seeps through his words.
Luka finally sighs— exasperated, before returning to unlace his other skate. Smiling has left his cheeks sore. "I was lucky enough not to hear of you at all."
Ivan Volkov was his greatest opponent— though if you caught Luka's raw, unfiltered thoughts, greatest was far too opulent. Even the title of "closest competitor" was being generous. Volkov was skilled, yes, but no one should come close to Luka— the idea was impossible, when he was the only one in the world with the expertise to land a quadruple axel.
It was simply a matter of fact that a jump taking off from the forward position with four and a half revolutions would have a base value alone of 12.5. In fact, there have been claims that the jump is underscored, considering it was, without a doubt, the hardest element in the sport.
That— combined with his aforementioned masterful artistry- made not the best skater, but the perfect one.
Luka has dominated the sport since he was thirteen. Having won every major competition in both the juvenile and senior divisions. Since his national debut, he has not spared the public a single fall. Not in competition, not during warmups, not even during recorded practices. That is ten years worth of control. Such an astonishing accomplishment has fans referring to him as “Mr. Stability” on the side— though Angel was, of course, his primary title.
It was never a question of who would receive a gold medal, because the answer was already professed. So, Volkov would just have to continue scrapping with others, only to settle for second place. The audience could say he and Ivan were rivals, but it wasn't the truth.
An equal contender was not a concept possible for a The Ruler of the Ice
Ivan grins, the expression once again soaked in hidden dissatisfaction, "Yes, well, the sponsors love to boast about their angel."
He says nothing to that, no longer feeling the need to pretend. This would no doubt be aiding in the beliefs that Luka Bauer was a peculiar snob who cursed other members of Anakt Garden, but how the other skaters felt about him was irrelevant— and truly far below him. His arrogance was earned. And such a fact was reflected by how many times he stood at the center of podiums. That is not even beginning to mention the number of world records he’s set, and broken in the same year.
Luka pulls off the other boot, swiftly cracking his bones and rolling his ankle again out of routine. Ivan, somehow still discontent, grabs the stuffed animal beside him and begins playing with it— making the thing frolic through the air.
"How cute. It almost looks like you," Ivan says, holding the now drab fur to Luka's face.
"I consider myself a cat person." Luka pushes the thing away.
"Heartless. This was from a fan, you know?"
"Yes, and I suppose you keep every stuffed toy you receive after competition."
"Well, of course. In fact— I greet each plushy with a kiss in the morning. I spend a lot of time tending to them, naturally."
Ivan grins, his pale skin illuminated by moonlight; he is a direct contrast to Luka. Dark eyes, black hair, black costume that glitters in the darkness, though it's mostly concealed by his own Anakt Garden figure skating club jacket— which is black too, of course.
How such a sorrowful parasite managed to be so adored by the audience was always a mystery to Luka.
"Hmm. Explains why all of your jumps are so poor. Late takeoff." Luka taunts, tone once again unemotional; though, he can't help the slight upturn of his lips as Ivan's own smile jerks, a flicker of resentment shining through.
"I wonder if you'll be saying that in a few weeks," Ivan drawls, expression shifting into something Luka believes is grandiosity— though he really can't discern for certain. "The sponsors were quite pleased with what they saw."
Skaters were not allowed to watch each other's performances at the Florescence to keep each athlete's programs secret from everyone, except the Segyein and rich sports enthusiasts. It aided in the mystery and, by extension, the competition as other skaters saw each other after the trial.
Segyein weren't even technically allowed to speak of the other skater's performances to the flowers they chose to gape at. Though as the night progressed and sponsors grew antsy, information often slipped through the cracks.
Luka scoffs. "Yet they were praising me, while interviewing you?" Why Volkov was feeling so excessively irritating this evening was almost disconcerting, but Luka was at an end, his body unnecessarily fatigued and aching.
To which Ivan just toys with the stuffed dog once more, conniving smile never once leaving his pestilent face.
Finally, he looks up— though his gaze doesn't meet Luka's as he pushes the plush toward him.
"I'm looking forward to this season, Bauer." His voice is uncharacteristically quiet, tone almost cunning.
"Something tells me the Grand Prix Finals will be interesting."
Luka is left uneasy at the perplexed feeling in his chest. Not because he's apprehensive, but because Volkov speaks like some crazy bastard from an old horror film.
Not because the man could be a hazard in the long run.
The feeling is quickly erased when Volkov's demeanor returns to its almost antagonistic normal.
"Oh, but I suppose we will be seeing each other at the Rostelecom Cup, yes? I look forward to competing with you then," Ivan says, moving to his feet. He looms, casting a lengthy shadow over Luka, as if waiting for a farewell.
Luka is silent, standing himself— but still falling short beside Ivan— before using his remaining energy to glare into his eyes.
He holds the man’s gaze. Ignoring how his heart recoils, as though the ever so dark eyes piercing his were truly knives impaling his frame.
For once, Ivan is still. Silent. None of his features communicate even a hint of amusement.
At last, when the weight of Volkov’s eyes grows too unbearable, Luka hums.
"I look forward to standing on the podium, glancing down to my right, and seeing you there." He murmurs.
Ivan stares as Luka steps forward. Breath almost— almost— hitching as a cold, gloved hand reaches for his chest.
Luka tugs on the zipper of Ivan’s coat, unveiling only half of the costume for his free program. He tilts his head, picturing a medal shining against the black.
If you asked him, the outfit was far too glittery to be weighed down by any trophy. Though, for now, he will give Ivan the benefit of the doubt.
"Silver will look good against the black. Don't you think?" Luka smiles. Mirroring the face before him.
Ivan stares.
And then finally, a laugh.
Breathy, insincere. Almost a huff of disbelief.
"Goodnight, Ivan." Luka finalizes, pushing the golden retriever into his bag and turning on his heel for his car.
He wouldn't plague himself with trying to understand whatever the hell the tangled mess of wires that Volkov's brain was. He did well today. Father was proud, and he can be too.
He was perfect.
Whatever happened in the locker room wouldn't be a common occurrence. Nor would it continue to take such a physical toll on him. He wouldn't allow that.
He would just have to work harder. In fact, Volkov was right. The Grand Prix would prove to be an interesting competition. As it was then and there that Luka swore he could be landing all seven quads by the Grand Prix finals. He would be.
For he would never falter, never shatter. He could be broken, yes, but he would find any hint of frailty and pluck it from his being immediately. He would continue to flourish, while the others shrieked all around him. All beneath him.
An angel, perfection gliding on the ice.
Luka is gnawing on his lip again.